


Redwoods

by zeski



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Accountant Liam Payne, Alternate Universe, Barebacking, Cheating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Failed Marriage, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Love at First Sight, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Parent Liam Payne, Secret Relationship, Separation, Strangers to Lovers, Writer Zayn Malik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeski/pseuds/zeski
Summary: Liam, a stay-at-home dad in a stagnant relationship, finds his life changed with the arrival of a struggling writer visiting the Redwoods Country in search of inspiration.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	1. Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Accompanying [moodboard](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/post/190123154240/redwoods-by-zeski-language-english-words-315k).
> 
> This one is from a film dear to me, Redwoods (2009). I've decided to play a little bit with it, and took liberty to change things a bit (and address some stuff I always thought the film overlooked). For those familiar with the original work, I'm _**not**_ following the exact same route. Rest assured. That would be somewhat cruel, in my view.
> 
> Happy New Year!

Redwoods

Insistent tapping to his shoulder wakes Liam up. It’s early, he knows. The sun shines shyly through the blinds, meaning he has another hour of sleep. He doesn’t resume it, though, instead flipping onto his back to face a little, inquisitive stare.

Liam pulls the boy down with him for merciless tickling. “Somebody’s feeling energetic, eh?”

The commotion wakes Miles up on the other side of the bed, but unlike Liam, he welcomes it with groans.

“Go get ready, Billy,” Miles commands, scrubbing his face with one hand. “I’m making us some breakfast, okay?”

Billy nods, though mostly to Liam. With a leap, the little boy slides off bed and scampers out of the bedroom. It’s just Liam and Miles again, and again there’s only silence. Liam turns on his side for eye contact, but it never happens; Miles’ eyes remain glued to the ceiling, not a single word uttered. Not even a plain _‘good morning’_.

Liam turns to face the wall again. He won’t try talking again.

#

There’s only so much distraction a morning jog can provide. Liam returns home to find Miles still there. The luggage lies on the same spot, by the front door. Everything seems the same as Liam had bid them goodbye. Except for Billy rocking in the sofa and shaking his head.

“He doesn’t wanna go.” Miles pinches and rubs his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “Do something about it.”

Liam slips his trainees off. He’d point out that Billy is Miles’ responsibility as much as his, but he doesn’t want an argument. They would have to talk to even have an argument, anyway.

“What happened, lad?” Liam asks, crouching down so their eyes meet. “Aren’t you going to see grandma and grandpa? They’re waiting for you.”

Billy lunges forwards and hugs Liam’s head. His little heart pounds his ribcage away. There’s nothing for Liam to do besides assuring him. Soft, whispered words, and lots of back rubbing.

“I’ll be here when you come back, okay?” he says. When the grip on him loosens up, he reverts their positions, kissing Billy’s temple. “I promise I’ll be here. Don’t worry.”

Although it takes time, Liam succeeds in calming Billy down. They exchange a tentative smile, then seal their agreement by running a hand over each other’s faces.

“I need something from you,” Miles says, coming through the front door. The luggage is gone. “The sprinkler isn’t working, and there’s mould in the bathroom upstairs. Check those for me?”

“Sure.” Liam pushes himself up, placing both hands on the small of his back. “I’ll take a gander.”

“Great!” Miles clasps his hands together. “We’re going now. I’ll call you when we get there.”

And that’s it. Nothing else. The door closes in Liam’s face and his tentative wave falls along with his arm, limp to his side. It’s him and the whole house for a week from now. His first time alone in over five years.

He sniffs his armpits. “I need... a shower.”

In theory, yes. In practice, he finds himself tidying up their lounge. Cushions all over the place. Toys strewn, a few smashed or missing a limb. Before he knows it, he’s vacuumed the house, and produced a bag of broken stuff and dust.

Call it his out-of-season spring cleaning.

Liam needs a plan. Now that he has all this free time, he has no idea how to use it. Mind you, he still has a mountain of work to do. But again, he’s had work before, and he’s managed just fine. Everyday juggling work, doing the chores, and watching over Billy. Maybe he’ll start by accepting his sister-in-law’s invitation for lunch.

“Hello?”

Liam puts the lid back on the bin, and watches a grey car coming to a halt in front of his house. A dark-haired man climbs out, a bunch of paper crumpled in one hand. Definitely a tourist, since his face isn’t familiar— any model would stand out in a small town of average people.

“Hi,” the man tries again, attempting a smile. “Is this—” he glances down at the papers he holds “—Humboldt Street? _Please_ , tell me it is.”

“I can do that, but... you’re still in Humboldt _Lane_ ,” Liam replies. Something in the way the guy’s shoulders sag makes it both hilarious and pitiful. “It’s not far, though. Where you’re headed?”

Again, the stranger consults his notes. “Humboldt Bed & Breakfast... _hopefully_.”

“You’re staying at Deedee’s. That’s even easier to find.” Liam approaches his wooden gate, grabbing the bars. “You can’t miss it.” When the stranger raises both eyebrows at him, he adds, “Okay, you _can_ , but it’s your fault for not following your GPS, mate.”

“Like... I don’t have one of those.” The guy titters, tongue slightly peeking between his teeth. He also rubs the patch of hair beneath his lip, trying to stop. “Help a lost stranger the old-fashioned way, please?”

Liam glances at himself, then at the stranger. All the sweat from jogging and cleaning has him in a deplorable state. He hasn’t planned on seeing anyone like this. Would the guy mind if he takes a shower and comes back more presentable? His best guess is _yes_.

“Do yourself a favour, and get one for your next trip,” he tells the man, unlocking the gate. “It’s worked for people I know.”

The stranger hands over a beat-down map. “Reading maps is a lost skill these days.”

“Clearly.”

 _Oopsie._ Accidental sarcasm. Liam has no qualms in being a bit of an arse, but only to friends and family. It’s definitely not something he’d say to someone he’s just met.

The guy’s jaw drops a little. His brow furrows till he’s squinting. For the longest time (in Liam’s head, at least), he remains mute, staring back at Liam. Now would be a bad time to find out somebody has anger issues and can’t take a joke. (Out of place, but a joke still.)

A smirk smooths the guy’s features, and he winks and points at Liam. “ _Touché._ ”

“I... Here, let me show you,” Liam mumbles, laying the map atop the car. He doesn’t go far in his explanation, as a chest bumps against his sweaty arm. “Oh, sorry.”

“No, no! It’s all right.” The guy waves a hand dismissively, taking a step back. “My bad, mate. Really.”

This blame claiming won’t get them nowhere—figuratively and literally—so Liam focus on directions. He doesn’t start right away, though, waiting for the eyes on him to also turn to the map.

“You should have taken this one here.” His forefinger traces a route. He then taps it to a point not too distant. “Right now, we are here.”

“You don’t really sound American to me.”

Liam lifts his eyes from the map, only to meet the guy’s piercing gaze again. Is there something on his face? Besides sweat, that is. Because such a hard stare doesn’t come unwarranted.

“Same for you,” he replies. The map is once again folded, and handed back before things get personal. It is still, after all, a stranger in front of his house. “Anything else?”

A tentative hand is extended, palm facing downwards. “I’m Zayn, by the way.”

Liam accepts it, meeting an unexpected firm grip. Not overbearing, but confident. Surprisingly soft at touch, too.

“Liam,” he says. Realising the handshake lingers, he retracts his hand to his left elbow. “So... where you from?”

Zayn open pulls his jacket open, revealing a red shirt with white lettering that reads _MINNESOTA_. It readily earns him a raised eyebrow, and then he’s laughing. Soft laughter that lets his tongue peek between his front teeth, like a mischievous boy.

“This is for my character, actually. I’m, erm... a writer. Aspire to be,” Zayn explains, and it’s the only time he drops his gaze. “Trying to finish my book, and all tha’, y’know?”

The tiny smirk as he speaks shows something else. It’s an unexpected break from the cheeky attitude. A little more bashful, perhaps? Whatever it is, it prompts a chuckle from Liam.

“Same here.” Liam smiles at memories of the days he’d ache to get words on paper, days he’d write tales for his favourite series. “That was a long time ago. Haven’t written anything in years,” he adds when Zayn’s smile grows larger. “It’s a bit of a boring story, really.”

However, Zayn’s smile doesn’t fade away. The twinkle in his eyes intensifies, and he nods expectantly at Liam’s confession. He goes as far as readjust his posture, standing less slouched. He waits for a follow-up, for Liam to elaborate, and it’s all sorts of flattering _and_ embarrassing.

“I better go—” Liam points a thumb over his shoulder, breaking eye contact. Something in Zayn’s eyes urges him to do it, whilst also demanding the opposite. “Still got stuff to do.”

“Sure, sure.” Zayn scuffles at the gravel road. “I won’t keep ya from your shower. Thanks, _Leeyum_.”

“Bye... Zayn.”

Only when the grey Crown Victoria disappears does Liam assess himself: he’s a mess. Sweaty, unkempt hair, and his nipples very visible through his white T-shirt.

A hell of a screwed-up first impression, it is.

#

Lunch with Logan goes fine. Although Liam turns down an invitation to watch football with the lads, he’s glad for his brother’s thoughtfulness. He understands his family doesn’t want him to feel lonely; he really does. It’s just— he won’t endure an hour of straight blokes yelling and drinking. That’s something reserved to his closeted years.

There’s no escape to the Paynes’ love, though. If he manages to escape his brother, the same can’t be said about his mum. And between finishing his sister-in-law’s food and heading back home, he’s dragged to the antique shop.

“This one is new,” Mama Payne says, pulling open the first drawer of a dressing table. When Liam cocks an eyebrow in response, and she readily swats at his arm. “New in the shop. Don’t get cheeky with me,” she rectifies. “But I’m not getting it. Your dad is going to kill me.”

“Or,” Liam says, a small grin tugging at his lips, “you can convince him. Like you always do.”

She laughs. “I suppose that works, too!”

From dressing tables to paintings, then to vases. They easily roam the shop for an hour. Mama Payne inspects every potential purchase with clinical eye, always throwing in some trivia. It leaves Liam’s mouth sour, knowing she’s given up dreams for him and his brother, though these days they no longer argue about it.

“I know Dad can’t say—”

A rich quiff of raven hair catches Liam’s attention. It’s just the back of a man, and he can’t make any faces, but it strikes him as familiar. Sort of. Not too familiar that he’d have seen it for years.

Mama Payne grabs his forearm. “Are you all right, love?”

“What?” Liam blinks a few times, then glances at the mirror he’s seen the bloke’s reflection in. It’s now empty. “Yeah, yeah! Definitely!”

Her squinted eyes equate to suspicion, and Liam blame her: he doesn’t believe his own words, either. And maybe she grows _even more_ suspicious when he refuses to leave with her. Nonetheless, she doesn’t try to pry despite wanting to.

As soon as she leaves, it’s tracking down time. Liam pretends to check on antiques, pacing around the place. Whilst _Fife Creek_ isn’t _enormous_ , its many door archways, furniture, and walls make up for a small maze.

 _What am I doing?_ The question echoes in his mind. He doesn’t like antique shops. His mum is his sole reason to come here, and she’s already left. Why linger without a good reason for it? Because he can think of some, and all worry him.

When Liam turns around, set on dropping his pursuit, a male figure cuts his way.

“I reckon this is a small town,” Zayn says. He picks a wooden lock box up, smoothing over the carved top with a gentle palm. “Didn’t recognise ya in those.”

It’s just a pink polo and grey trousers. More serious than short shorts and a sweaty top, but not by much. It’s how Liam mostly dresses. Outside the house, of course. He’ll often be shirtless in trackies, or pyjama bottoms at home.

Unless he’s cooking. Then, he’ll favour a top and an apron, and forego trousers.

“Can’t go around flashing my nips all the time, can I?”

Zayn’s lips form a pout, then upturn into a smirk. “Is tha’ supposed to sound bad?”

“I don’t really—”

But Zayn has already gravitated to the next shelf. It’s all wood and old things, but seemingly enough to catch his attention. More than any words Liam has to say, it seems. And it’s bad to be less interesting than random people’s memorabilia.

“ _Leeyum!_ C'mere!”

Although Liam shakes his head and sighs, he complies. With Zayn’s broad shoulders out of the way, it’s easy to see the object of such interest: an engraved wood lock box. Not even a particularly good-looking one. Even tacky with the generic scenery image framed in the lid.

Okay, _maybe_ there’s a chance Liam hates being ignored.

“It’s like touching history.” Zayn angles the box left and right, then slides a flat palm over it. “Imagine all the secrets it’s seen!”

Liam chuckles. “Goodness. You’re _really_ a writer.”

“And you never told wha’ you do,” Zayn retorts, prodding the keyhole with his pinky. He lifts his gaze from the box, his defiant, soul-piercing stare back again. “So?”

“It’s really boring stuff.” He tries to laughs it off, but it only earns him a pair of raised eyebrows. “I... I’m an accountant.”

Zayn slowly sets the box back on the shelf. “Sounds... uh, challenging.”

“Lets me work from home.” Liam shrugs. “I can stay with Billy, so it’s good.”

Zayn’s wide smile catches Liam unprepared. Usually, when he says he works at home, people give him a pitiful look. He knows it too well, having received it for years. From his friends, from old colleagues, and even from his family. But a genuine smile? This is a first.

“You have a kid?!”

“The best one!” Liam beams. He doesn’t hesitate shoving his open wallet into Zayn’s hands. “The sweetest lad you’ll ever meet.”

Zayn makes low siren noises. “Doting dad alert.”

Gnawing on his lip is the only way Liam can keep himself from gushing. Really, he doesn’t want to sound like he’s boasting about his parenting. Though, to be fair, he’s done his best with Billy. He likes to believe so, anyway.

“A little bit,” he finally says. “He’s really amazing, though. Mum can confirm that.”

“She looks more biased than you.” Zayn taps the lady hugging a little boy from behind. Contrary to his words, his smile remains soft. “Let me guess”—he points to Mama Payne’s left—“your brother is the same.”

“Logan is my twin.” Liam swallows hard. “That’s my... partner.”

Zayn blinks, jerks his head backwards. “Oh.”

Silence falls over them. Heavy, smothering. For the first time since meeting, Zayn has no cheeky remark to offer. He has nothing, really. Even his attentive stare is gone, as his eyes focus on the old chest instead of Liam’s eyes.

Zayn clears his throat. “And how long you two been—”

“Eight years!” Liam blurts out. His expression isn’t any less surprised than Zayn’s, but at least it’s earned him some attention again. “Seven, I mean,” he corrects, then adds softly, “Seven years, yeah.”

Where is the conversation going, he doesn’t know. Can it still be called a conversation? Because Zayn has the same expression Nan Payne makes when expecting— _dreading_ —the _bang_ of fireworks, and she _loathes_ fireworks.

If it’s a fight or flight situation, then Liam’s choice is obvious.

“I...” he trails off, watching Zayn’s brow furrow further. “I need to go home! Bye!”

Too bad that Zayn has chosen the former. With a firm grip, on top of that.

“ _Leeyum_? Can I ask ya a favour?” he asks in a timid tone, letting go of Liam’s arm when Liam stares at the sudden contact. “You’re... free today?”

#

Deedee’s smile blossoms at the sight of Liam. He’s never sure whether it’s her personality or a quirk from her occupation, but it’s always genuine. After all, he’s known her for almost his entire life. Here, outside the family in England, she’s the closest he has to an aunt.

“Liam! What a nice surprise!” she beams, the crinkles by her eyes becoming prominent. “What _miracle_ brings you here?”

Liam rolls his eyes, then giggles. “Overdramatic as always, Deedee.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you _visited_ me once in a while,” she shoots back, but she too giggles, pulling Liam into a brief, warm hug. “I get tired of beating your Mum on cards every time.”

And then, as if she’s just noticed they’re not alone, she turns to Zayn. Her smile doesn’t falter, though it becomes a little more reserved. This one should be her professional smile, and it also reminds Liam this isn’t a proper visit.

“I see you’ve already met Zayn.” Her smile is now an unmistakable smirk. “The most polite soul we ever had here.”

Zayn scratches the nape of his neck. “Don’t know ‘bout tha’.”

Deedee, however, dismisses it with a wave of her hand and a snort. With over twenty years of business, she surely has had her share of rude people. It’s not as if Liam hasn’t noticed what she means, either. Zayn is just too soft-spoken to not be equally polite.

“We should be going, Deedee,” Liam says, more to Zayn than to her. “He wanna see the woods.”

“My tour guide,” Zayn adds, thumb pointing to Liam. “Convinced him.”

“Already _good_ friends, aren’t we?” Deedee’s smirk grows more prominent as she looks between the two of them. “You couldn’t have made a better choice, Zayn.”

“ _Bye_ , Deedee,” Liam says firmly, quirking his eyebrows for an instant.

Whether he wants to escape Deedee’s wit or the sudden weight in his stomach, Liam drags Zayn away. By the hand. And he doesn’t realise till an ever so soft _“it’s to the right”_ reminds him he doesn’t know which room Zayn has taken.

Then, they have to pass Deedee and her smug face. Again.

“I think I’ll wait here,” Liam says.

“Don’t be silly, mate.” Zayn scoffs, unlocking the rightmost of a sequences of white doors. “It’ll be a minute. I, uh, might need a little help, too.”

It becomes clear when the door swings open: the room is a war zone. It’s short on corpses and severed limbs, but the several clothes replace those just fine. Jeans, shirts, socks, boxers. On the floor, over the desk, spilling out of the open suitcase on the bed. It’s as if somebody has been living here for a month as opposed to _half_ a day.

Liam frowns. “You’re not winning any awards for tidiness.”

“Brutally honest, aren’t we?” Zayn feigns a chest pain. He also laughs it off, so he’s probably has taken it better than his words imply. “I appreciate it, though.”

The smile on Liam’s face is inevitable.

“You’re welcome, mate.”

There’s more to Zayn and his luggage than piles of clothes. Liam notices a metallic shine from under some black boxers, and reach for it without a second thought. He may or may not have worried about it being a gun, but Zayn doesn’t strike him as a gun-loving guy. Those delicate, slender fingers are better suited to words than firearms.

“Can you really play this?”

“Define ‘play’, please,” Zayn replies, not looking up from his suitcase. When he does raise his eyes, he flashes a sheepish smile. “Getting there. It’s an ongoing project.”

Liam snorts, shaking his head. “Poser.”

This odd familiarity pushes Liam to not filter his words. It’s unlike him to pull someone’s leg like this. Not somebody he’s just met, no. His dry wit is reserved to family and friends. And while Zayn may not be either, there’s no effort on his part to stop it. Quite the opposite.

“Testing me, huh?” Zayn asks, a single eyebrow quirked up. He nods continuously, running a tongue across his bottom lip, then holds his hand out. “Challenge accepted.”

Liam plops down on the mattress, tugged by the hand that robs him of the harmonica. Never one to fall graciously, his left leg ends up strewn over Zayn’s thigh. The look they both share is brief, even briefer than what it takes for them to sit up apart.

“Get ready to be blown away,” Zayn warns, readying his lips. He then blows into the harmonica twice: left to right, and right to left. “Wha’ you think?”

And that’s it. That’s the whole ‘playing’ he does.

“You— I can’t believe you can’t even play it!” Liam tries to cover his mouth, but laughter escapes him easily. Far too easily, because he’s _tittering_. “You’re such a poser!”

“Pretty sure ‘ongoing project’ covers tha’, _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn shoots back. He might as well be five with his rather long tongue sticking out of his mouth.

“Didn’t think you meant you started _yesterday_.”

“Today, actually.”

Liam laughs. Hard. Zayn is laughing, too, so it’s even harder to stop. For nearly a minute, they can’t stop. No surprise, given that their attempts go from half-hearted to non-existent.

“You’re unbelievable,” Liam whispers, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes. “Bloody unbelievable!”

Zayn blows into the harmonica again. “Music is my plan B. If writing goes to shit, and all tha’.”

“What are you’re writing?”

Suddenly serious, Zayn points the harmonica at Liam.

“Good question,” he replies, then purses his lips into two thin lines.

#

The natural conclusion is that Zayn is a curious soul. The look he gives the redwoods is the same he’s had at the antique shop. Focused, intrigued, questioning. It’s awe, but not the passive— he yearns to know more.

It’s true that Liam spends most of the time watching Zayn’s reactions. In a way, these would be his own reactions as a kid. He still remembers that fascination with the giant trees, the excitement of seeing one for the first time.

Only that Zayn is a grown, bearded men, which makes it all the more endearing.

“It’s... massive.”

Liam chuckles. “Lost for words, Mr. Writer?”

“A bit,” he admits, grinning at Liam and then heavenwards. He won’t see the sequoia’s crown, no matter how much he cranks his neck. “It’s so big, so... _impressive_. Makes ya feel small, yeah?”

“Some have been here for a thousand years.”

It’d be opportune to share one of those tree facts learnt over the years. Liam has a bunch of titbits he supposes would interest Zayn. The only fault in his plan is that there’s no one to listen to him. And that’s because Zayn is busy chatting to some muscular hiker across the track.

It wouldn’t hurt _trying_ to pretend he’s interested in what Liam has to say.

But then, Zayn winks. At Liam, not at the _instahoe_ hiker. And for a moment Liam frowns, deliberates whether he’s imagined it or not. It’s happened. Discreetly, but definitely real.

“Gimme your best smile,” Zayn says, sauntering to Liam’s side and not really explaining anything. “Don’t lie saying you have bad teeth.”

The stranger holds a camera up. It’s a photo. An unprompted photo and Liam is supposed to smile. A photo that Liam hasn’t prepared physically and mentally for. Though, if going into specifics, he’s not ready for _any_ of this.

No better time to let Zayn know.

“I’m not photogenic,” he singsongs through gritted teeth, and out of the corner of his mouth. “Can we forget this?”

“Bollocks!” Zayn whispers back, smiling at the camera. It’s more like a smirk, showing the left half of his teeth. “Pretty sure I’ve seen you on a mag or two.”

“I’m talking about me; _not_ you,” Liam hisses. “I always look like awk—”

“Y’all say ‘cheese’!”

A tiny instant passes between the hiker’s warning and the actual flash. Liam barely has time to get a smile on his face, and he knows it’s bad. Without even looking at the picture, he already knows he looks stiff like a waxing doll. It happens whenever he’s told to smile.

_Gosh._

Liam asks the hiker to take one more shot. The guy agrees with him, and suddenly it seems unfair to brand such a helpful person an instahoe. Not that there’s any correlation, but he’s reminded he shouldn’t judge by looks. People can be ridiculously good-looking and be nice.

Zayn is walking, living, breathing evidence of it.

“Can’t smile on demand.” Liam laughs it off, making a circular motion with his forefinger before his face. “The mug look plastic.”

Zayn leans in, whispering his next words, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You didn’t ask— It’s your fault, okay?”

“A natural smile is fine, I suppose?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “I’ve just said—”

An arm wraps around Liam’s midsection. If the grip on his waist astonishes him, all surprise is gone upon realising Zayn’s intentions. Because the fingers won’t just hold Liam, but they also skim and prod at his side.

The flash is barely noticeable. Everything else is a low priority when Liam has to escape some tickling. And now isn’t different. Though he admits Zayn has a really strong grip for a small guy. Enough strength to keep Liam on the spot for their shot.

“Here you go.” Nice Hiker hands the camera back to Zayn. “Took a few, just in case.”

“Cheers, mate.” Zayn shakes hands with the bloke.

Watching the exchange, Liam pants, gasping for air. In his chest, minor anger bubbles. He loathes getting tickled. Zayn wouldn’t know, but there’s really few things he hates more than that.

Getting tickled, for Liam, means giving up control. It means helplessness. He becomes a bloody doughnut gasping for air and giggling, unable to stop. Hopeless, at someone else’s mercy.

Liam hates it.

“Don’t do that again,” he finally says. “Seriously.”

His tone has Zayn looking up from the camera, eyes blown wide. Mouth opens, but no words come out. Instead, teeth gnaw on his chapped bottom lip. Silence is all that fills the space between, now that they’re alone on the track again.

“I’m sorry, _Leeyum_.” Zayn holds the camera up, display facing away from him. On the small screen, he shares an almost hug with a hysterical, closed-eyed Liam. “Won’t happen again. I promise.”

Things is, Liam has had people promise before, only to break it minutes later. _Hell_ , even on the following second. For some, saying ‘I don’t like something’ is a dare to _do_ it. And he prefers to be respected. On everything. No matter how small.

So, maybe, he should be wary, should not trust a stranger’s words. But Zayn’s eyes are earnest— have been from the beginning. There’s not a hint of snide. No half-hearted, blame-shifting apology, either. It’s just his eyes and voice, and they make it hard to not believe it.

Liam sighs. “Well, I _guess_ it’s a good pic.”

Zayn perks up, his frown coming undone with a smile. It starts timid, but in no time fully blossoms. The tip of his tongue also peeks out, almost like a cat’s blep, if only less goofy.

“Unphotogenic, huh?” he asks, sounding as cocky as the smirk he now sports.

“Shut it, Writer man!” Liam counters, rolling his eyes. This sudden heat in his cheeks is such a real bother. “And _delete_ the other one,” he warns, index finger wagging in the air.

As they delve deeper into the park, their argument about the fate of the first pic gives place to childhood memories. All very tentative and mindful of limits, yet enough to let both breathe again.

The tickling incident is ‘forgotten’, too. For the low price of a sneak peek on Zayn’s novel, Liam agrees on letting it go.

Accusations of _“using the puppy eyes for personal gain”_ are a small price to pay.

#

The next day—and it’s pretty much a spur of the moment thing—they go fishing, despite Zayn’s reservations. Liam insists that they do something relaxing, lest somebody explodes with anxiety.

Hint: ‘somebody’ isn’t Liam.

The suggestion comes up after the expected _“good morning”_ gets replaced with _“did you like it?”_ Because Liam knows a thing or two from creative writing classes. One of them is that no writer lasts fretting over every review, or lacking a thick skin. Zayn strikes him as both: too gentle and delicate for the ruthless writing business.

“C’mon, _Leeyum!_ ” Zayn suddenly groans. “Stop killing me with the suspense, would ya?”

Liam casts the line into the river, chuckling to himself. A little bit mean, he reckons, but he has to prepare Zayn for what he has to say. Same goes for upcoming reviews, as he’s sure most editors won’t be as gentle as himself. Not even close.

“You’re supposed to relax, mate,” he replies. “That’s the whole point of fishing.”

“No, the whole point is watching a poor animal _struggle_.”

Truly, a gentle soul to match a gentle face. Even though he basically implies Liam does enjoy animal suffering, which isn’t true. Fishing is just one of the few distractions available in a small town. Varied entertainment is a luxury exclusive to the big city, or he’d chosen paintball, for example.

“So…” Liam casts his line. “You really ran away from home?”

“Never said it’s an autobiography,” Zayn replies. Too fast for both their ears, as he adds more casual, “It’s just a story.”

Liam raises one hand in defence. “All right, all right! I won’t ask.”

“Because there’s _nothing”_ —Zayn nods for extra emphasis—“to ask there.”

Silence can’t fill their stomachs like it does to the space between them. After an hour or so of no luck, hunger forces them to a small break. Thankfully, Liam has brought sandwiches and water, which he attributes to life with Billy.

There isn’t much talking over food, either. The closest to it is a _“thanks”_ through a mouthful and a soft _“sure”_ in response. Zayn pulls a lot of expressions and funny faces, so it’s perhaps a matter of non-verbal communication.

Just them, their butties, and the bonnet of Zayn’s car as their seat.

“I like your style.”

Zayn studies his own arms—covered in tattoos—and grey vest, slowing down his munching.

“My style...?”

“Writing style, silly. But I reckon you don’t look shabby.” Liam grins, watching Zayn sigh with a hand to chest. “Mate, you can’t be on the edge every time somebody says something.”

This time, Zayn remains silent. He nods, focusing on Liam’s lips. It makes it easier to get the words, Liam supposes. He’s known to talk fast at times.

“Your story is good— pretty relatable to me,” Liam says. He slaps both his thighs, running his hands up and down. Seeing that a second eyebrow shoots up, he clarifies, “When you’re a sensitive twig boy into arts, you’re also... every bully’s wet dream.”

A snort escapes Zayn, but it dies out under Liam’s glare. If they’re going to do this, then it’s better to end this here. There’s plenty of childhood bad memories to add Zayn’s disdain to them.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” Zayn says. “You do have a, uh... a flair for words. Surprised me a bit, yeah?”

Somehow, it’s worse than if Zayn had admitted to mocking him. Liam can deal with mockery; has done so for most of his life. An acquired skill that might as well figure on his resumé.

Random compliments from strangers? Those are difficult. Although he figures Zayn is a proper acquaintance by now.

“I... really don’t.”

“Yeah, you _do_. Can't you take a compliment, you doughnut?”

Maybe it's the gentle yet adamant tone. Might as well be the chastising index finger that evokes caution. Whatever it is, it defeats Liam. He can’t do much past staring at Zayn, wide-eyed and ready to protest. _Doughnut? Really?_

“The title has to go,” he says instead.

“I _love_ the title. Faith is a real place,” Zayn counters, shoving the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth. “ _Lost in Faith_ is a bit of wordplay. It's clever,” he adds through a mouthful, though hiding it behind a hand.

“It's—” Liam purses his lips into a thin line “—a bit cheesy, mate.”

If Liam had thought Zayn's eyebrows couldn't go higher, he now knows he's been wrong.

Zayn blinks, shaking his head as if recovering from a punch. “Cheesy?!”

“Sounds religious, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but... the story never goes there?” Liam elaborates, crumpling his wrapper into a ball. It's safer to fiddle with it than keeping eye contact. “This 'wordplay'”—he air quotes—“distracts from the story. You end up getting... sentimental.”

Hopefully, his tone isn't combative. Zayn has asked for an honest opinion. Well, this is it. This is Liam’s opinion.

“We can't get sentimental,” Zayn says. It's not a question; it's a statement. “Is that chest of yours big with just muscle?”

Liam sighs. He's expected this kind of reaction. Still, he won't dare look Zayn in the eye. What is eye contact? Suddenly, he doesn’t know any more.

“You're so aggressive and... _raw_ when it's about writing,” Zayn carries on.

Liam sighs again. “I knew this wasn’t a good id—”

“I love it!”

Any bit faster, and Liam would have broken his neck. Chances are that he’ll never react again at this same speed. Which is good, because he’s not trying to die. Even if looking into Zayn’s eyes hints otherwise.

“I prefer honesty,” Zayn says. He also gives that ease shrug where he also tilts their head sideways. “I don’t mind it a bit rough.”

“You don’t mind it rough.”

The raised eyebrow is involuntary. And so is the tone that lacks the fundamental question Liam means to ask. But both are already out and he can’t take them back, so he watches Zayn’s eyes grow comically wide.

“It’s... I wasn’t saying—” Zayn grimaces at their feet, scratching the back of his head. “Didn’t mean it like tha’, but can’t say you’re wrong.”

Sometimes, no answer is the best answer. Other times, no answer is the only answer. Liam would say right now is one of those times, and so he doesn’t reply. He can’t think of anything to say, either. Anything to leave his mouth will only dig him a deeper hole. It’s enough that he’s made it awkward for Zayn. Both of them, actually.

“I should go home.”

If it’s another fight or flight moment, then Liam’s choice is obvious. He pushes himself off the bonnet, and reaches for the door handle. Locked. He next digs for the keys, but only finds his house keys.

“If you wanna drive, just ask,” Zayn says. His voice sounds closer because they’re side by side. Well-humoured, too, as he unlocks the door with _his_ keys. “Pretty sure robbery doesn’t work like this, babe.”

It’s at his own expense, but Liam will take Zayn’s dorky laugh over a silent ride.

#

“Can’t believe a guy with a cool place like this wanted to steal me old car.”

Now that most of the embarrassment is gone, Liam titters. He’s had the whole trip back to get used to the whole leg-pulling. And a part of him suspects it’s a way to make things more natural, so Zayn has his thanks for it.

“I’m not living down this one, am I?” he asks, holding out a glass of water.

“Your first failed robbery? Don’t count on tha’.” Zayn smirks so wide, his eyes crinkle around the edges. “It’s really a nice place, though.”

Liam, too, takes in the kitchen, the ensemble of steel and wood that are his cupboards, sink and appliances. Every single thing fits together, and that’s how it should be, for all have been bought together.

“You have a good eye for this stuff.” Zayn draws a circle in the air with his glass. “It’s dope.”

“I haven’t done _any_ of this.” Liam scoffs, even though he doesn’t mean to. In the same way he involuntarily grows quieter. “I usually just... nod.”

There’s no way the change in Zayn’s instance goes unnoticed. The counter no longer serves as a support against his hip, and he stands up straighter. His grip on the cup is now two-handed, but since it’s a narrow cup, his fingers interlock around it.

“Sounds like... he’s figured his stuff out.”

When Liam lifts his gaze, because he’s been staring at Zayn’s long fingers, Zayn’s _chugging_ the water. The _‘I’ll miss the last bus home’_ kind of hurry. It’s a miracle it doesn’t choke, or even sprints out of the door.

“He’s generous, stable, good to Billy... Couldn’t really ask for a better partner,” he replies.

Zayn bites his bottom lip, but then asks, “...and to you?”

Three little words that might as well be knives to his guts. Liam won’t say there’s malice in the question, but he has a clear guess at what it entails. He knows Zayn’s sharp mind. That observing, curious nature innate of writers— it’s the same for him. In some ways this would mean common talking points and a good thing, but just not now.

“I _love_ my partner,” Liam blurts out. He regrets his urgent tone as soon as he closes his mouth. “I really do. It’s just—”

Zayn raises both eyebrows, nodding expectantly. As far as encouragement goes, he does a brilliant job at keeping his expression neutral. No judgemental looks that Liam so much fears.

“It’s just—” Liam squints, angles his head sideways. “Do you know anything about sprinklers?”

Whether Zayn does or not, five minutes later they’re in the backyard, staring at an oscillating sprinkler. On Zayn’s suggestion, Liam has changed into a vest. Reluctantly so, because he doesn’t really go sleeveless. The reassurance that he has _“great arms”_ doesn’t do much, either.

“ _Any_ idea of what you’re doing?”

“Only two options here,” Zayn says, disconnecting the hose. “I either fix it, or not.”

Liam shifts his weight on one leg, holding his elbows. “So... the same if anyone else had tried.”

Zayn halts. “Big talk from the bloke who _can’t_ fix a sprinkler.”

And although there’s an edge of challenge to it, their grins show the opposite. It’s involuntary, and before Liam knows it, they’re giggling. No joke, pun, or anything particularly funny. Nothing. They laugh because... _well_ , they can’t help it, he supposes.

“I’ll let you do your magic, bloke who _can_ fix sprinklers.”

True to his word, Liam sits on the stone flower bed closest to the tap, hands on his knees. It’s safe from this distance. Here, he can watch Zayn and don’t get hosed. Broad shoulders block his view, but it’s no hassle. Better to not get caught staring, as he knows he is.

 _Shouldn’t_ , but he is.

What Zayn does seems easy enough. Disassembling sure is. It’s one of Liam’s hidden talents, if all the childhood toys he’s taken apart prove anything. Assembling, on the other hand, has always been his weakest point, and why he leaves all the IKEA stuff to Miles.

Zayn, however, shows no such difficulties. Just as swiftly as he undoes the whole thing, he puts it together again. Whatever he does in between, that is kept from Liam’s eyes.

“I think it’s fixed!” Zayn announces, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “Just need—”

Some water, yes. Liam predicts and gets to it before Zayn completes the sentence. And perhaps not the only thing incomplete, as screams fill the backyard the next instant.

“Zayn—! Oh God.”

Torn between helping Zayn or closing off the tap, Liam does neither. He jogs halfway to Zayn, but then watches the match of man vs sprinkler. If Zayn lets go, it’s shower time. If Zayn doesn’t, well, that’s _more_ water in his mouth, nose and eyes.

When Liam finally moves, a soaked Zayn has stopped the water flow.

“For future reference”—Zayn flicks his damp hair off his eyes—“ _‘I think’_ doesn’t mean _‘I’m sure.’_ ”

Truth to be told, it’s not funny. If Liam focus for a second, he can still feel his heart pounding, and the panic of watching Zayn’s struggle. He does feel bad that he’s caused the accident. It’s only natural.

Still, something about Zayn’s squint—and here his left eye does a little twitch—is just... humorous. Hilarious, even. It’s a balanced mix of disbelief, resignation and annoyance. And it’s also enough to cause the corner of Liam’s lip to twitch.

“You did it on purpose.”

Liam covers his mouth, perhaps too fast for somebody innocent.

“I really didn’t,” he replies. A chuckle escapes him, and Zayn’s eyes narrow even further. “I _wish_ I was that smart. But seriously, it wasn’t my intention.”

Zayn nods slowly. “Obviously!”

“I can—” Liam clears his throat, pointing back to the house. “I mean, I’m gonna fetch a towel for ya.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Great!” Liam beams, already turning on his heels. The quicker he goes inside, the sooner he can have a laugh concealed from Zayn’s ears and eyes. “It’ll be a second.”

“Oh, _Leeyum_?”

Something about Zayn’s smile is unsettling. It may be that Liam is reminded of his brother right before the usual wobblers as kids. Or maybe because Zayn’s tone is _too_ sweet for somebody hosed in the face. He knows he wouldn’t be in such a good mood himself.

Liam swallows hard, taking a step backwards. “Y-Yeah?”

“Make it two towels.”

It’s a taste of Zayn’s early predicament: Liam has better chances snatching the sprinkler than running away. But again, that’s before factoring Zayn’s formidable strength for a smaller build.

They both yell, laugh and gasp; all at once. Wrestling for dominance becomes a tug of war, as they roll on the grass and over each other. The world is nothing but water, and high-pitched _woos_. For the two of them, it is.

Liam clearly has the disadvantage, trapped between the sprinkler and Zayn’s chest. Telling sky from ground is only possible because of the sun rays behind his eyelids. The stream makes impossible to keep both eyes open, and Zayn’s laugh in his ear is too distracting.

Unsurprisingly, the fight only ends when both are soaked. Hands hint thrice their actual age, and even _thoughts_ have water in them. Zayn’s smile loses the wicked glint, and now radiates satisfaction.

“A peace hug?” Zayn offers, opening his arms wide. “I promise I won’t do it again.”

“Because I’m not letting you close to my sprinklers again!” Liam grunts. His façade lasts as long as it takes for Zayn to pout. “You’re terrible, Mr. Writer.”

Zayn is the first one to pull their bodies together. They mesh rather easily, considering the height difference. Liam’s chin hook over Zayn’s shoulder and Zayn’s arms snake around Liam’s waist. It would seem rehearsed to the unsuspecting eye; no doubts. It’s easy.

 _Too_ easy, in fact.

“I’ll go fetch those towels,” Liam says, taking a step back. The hug is broken, but the contact lingers where his hand wraps around Zayn’s wrist. “You can’t hose me from behind,” he clarifies.

They reach the backdoor in silence. Zayn is against walking in wet, but Liam still has a hold on him, so there’s not much of a choice. Puddles form wherever they step on, but it’s either dripping all over the kitchen or standing outside. (And it’s hardly smart to stand soaked, in the shade, on a breezy afternoon.)

A checkered tea towel is the only cloth available. Liam glances at it, then at Zayn, who makes a funny face. Yeah, it may not be the most hygienic, but it’s an emergency. Desperate measures for desperate times. Survival of the fittest, and all that. Plus, he’ll wash it afterwards.

“Don’t judge me,” he warns, glaring at a giggly Zayn. He wipes his face and head, then passes the tea towel. “I’m gonna wash it proper.”

Zayn accepts it with a laugh. “I hope so.”

Of course, there’s only so much a single tea towel can absorb off two grown men. And maybe it’s obvious, and Liam should have foreseen it, but his reaction says otherwise.

“Aren’t you taking those off?”

Liam reels back, as if hit in the guts. “What?”

“You’re not walking around soaked, are ya?” Zayn reiterates. As to make his point, he takes his own top off and lets it fall heavy by his feet. “I thought you had cleaned the place already?”

“I’m...”

“I can look away, if you’re shy.”

There’s no malice in Zayn’s statement. Yet, it lights a fire in Liam. Is he really offended by the suggestion that he’s shy? He is, yeah, but that’s beside the point. He may not be Logan—who often skinny dips in their parents’ jacuzzi—but he’s no prude, either.

“Yeah, yeah,” Liam replies. “I was just about to.”

A lie. The most shameless lie of his entire life, probably. Because it’s unnecessary and it shouldn’t matter here. It shouldn’t bother him. It definitely shouldn’t weigh on his shoulders like he’s agreed to jump through fire hoops.

Still, Liam goes with it. He can’t just take it back, can he? And so he puts on a façade, and mimics Zayn’s movements. He slowly peels his top off, discarding it by his feet.

Next, they both undo their trousers. A better idea would be to drop their gazes, but they’re locked in intense eye contact, whether it’s wise or not. Liam starts pushing them down to his calves, and then notices Zayn unmoving.

“You—” he starts, though never finish the sentence. A single glance at the patch of dark hair peeking out of Zayn’s open fly says it all. ‘Glance’ used loosely, since he stares at it. For longer than it can be considered as an ‘accident’, too.

Zayn chews on his bottom lip. “Hm.”

Of many ways to go about it, Liam’s choice is perhaps one of the worst. Not only because he nearly buttheads his kitchen island, but also because he proves Zayn’s point.

All that bravery is gone, replaced with dread within seconds. He’s cupping himself—because soaked, white underwear keeps no secrets—and toeing out of his trousers. Hidden behind the island, suddenly eager to escape Zayn’s baffled expression. He also struggles not to stare at hips tattoos, or any lower than navel level.

“Stay there!” he orders Zayn, then sprints away, hunched over himself.

Every literal step leads to resignation. Somebody is going to dry the trail of droplets connecting the kitchen to the bedroom. It may not be as bad as if he’s had his clothes on, but it’s still annoying. A day cleaning the house, and he’s already mopping it again. _Great._

These are problems for later, though. The priority is towels and clothes for Zayn. And underwear. Zayn _definitely_ needs some underwear. Especially if he is to accept the pair of grey trackies Liam holds in one arm.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispers to his reflection in the mirror above his chest of drawers. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Once he’s raided drawers and shelves, Liam follows his own footprints, mindful to not slip on them. Back in the kitchen, he finds Zayn on the same spot. The only difference, and here it’s hard not to notice, is Zayn’s bent over. Arse in the air.

Completely _bare_.

Zayn jumps up, clutching his trousers to his chest. “Sorry! I didn’t think you’d be so quick!”

“It’s okay! I should— My fault for not knocking,” Liam says, gesturing for Zayn to hold the trousers lower. “Towel?”

Absolutely. Otherwise, Zayn wouldn’t snatch it at mach seven speed. And it’s just no good, because he’s seemed unsure before, but now he’s just... scrambling like someone caught naked. Which is indeed the case, but even so...

A diversion. That’s what they need. Some kind of normality to take away the awkward. Anything that can make them laugh, to ease them up again. So, Liam does the first thing to come to mind. Not his brightest idea, but enough to stop Zayn’s frantic scrubbing.

“What you’re doing?”

“Ordering some food,” Liam replies, wriggling out of his white boxers. As hard as it is to ignore Zayn’s stare, he figures it’ll be natural if he _acts_ natural. “Hope you like Chinese.”

Zayn stands back to his full height, slowly drying off his neck. “Uh, I can see your—”

“I hope you can stay a bit ‘cos I can’t eat for two, y’know?”

For the most part, it works. No way to tell what’s on Zayn mind, but his smile is clear, even out of the corner of Liam’s eye. He no longer covers himself, either. May this be their ticket back to breathing at ease again.

If standing naked in the kitchen is all it takes, so be it. Liam can go through a naked call, or two.

#

“You can’t be serious.”

Liam readjusts himself on the sofa. “Will you let me live?”

It’s safe to assume, no, Zayn can’t do that. Why else would this amused smirk play on his face, whilst he stares intently at Liam’s plate? And _God_ , can Zayn be a little shit.

“No, no. Let me get this straight,” Zayn begins, leaning forwards for a fork abandoned among takeaway boxes on the coffee table. “You order Chinese, but you can’t even it proper? Mate... C’mon, now.”

“We... we never eat those here,” he murmurs.

And it’s true. Whilst Liam doesn’t have a problem with spicy food himself, Miles does. The last attempt at a _mildly_ spicy meal still comes to him: an endless coughing fit, reddened face, and a night in the hospital. Two weeks of silence followed the incident.

Or as much as passive aggressive remarks count as actual silence.

So, even if Liam enjoys spicy food, it isn’t something he has on the regular. His own cooking included, as he dreads more accusations of premeditated murder. All this sounds a lot to reveal to an acquaintance, so he resorts to a white lie.

“Don’t eat out that much,” he says.

“Well, I’m making a promise now—” Zayn slurps some noodles “—tha’ I’ll take ya out for some good food,” he says through a mouthful, clicking his chopsticks at Liam. “Better be _ready_ ”

Liam laughs. “Can’t refuse it when you threaten me with those.”

“Good,” Zayn replies in a stern tone, then also laughs.

This time, silence is good. One, because they’re eating. Two, because it doesn’t crush them. At all. They also exchange—sometimes, _steal_ —bits of food, and neither blinks, nor thinks too much about it. At one point, Zayn’s sitting in lotus position, almost as if at his own place. That’s when Liam knows things are okay.

And it’s amazing to breathe again.

The rattling on wood interrupts their antics. With one hand Liam sets down his plate on the coffee table, and with the other one he picks his phone. On the screen, a known number flashes.

“Let me get this,” he tells Zayn, already sliding off the couch. Zayn has a quizzical expression, but does nod in response. “Be right back.”

What Liam doesn’t notice, and here it’s just his typical of him to wander round during a call, is _where_ his hands go. He doesn’t leave the lounge immediately, no. Instead of seeking privacy, he ambles in circles, right behind the sofa. His fingers begin to fiddle with backseat cushions, and he still doesn’t notice.

Meanwhile, Zayn ignores the conversation, keeps eating. Does a good job of it, too. But then, it comes: tapping on his shoulder. Light, at first, then more insistent and no rhythm whatsoever.

Just like it starts, the strumming stops. Briefly. The fingers get replaced by the entirety of Liam’s palm, and then it starts rubbing and massaging Zayn’s shoulder. A gentle, yet firm grip, on a continuous back-and-forth that has Zayn’s eyes closed.

“Is he around?” Liam asks, retracting his hand to his own hip. “Put him on the phone.”

Oblivious to how Zayn deflates, Liam walks away, asking Billy about the trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> For inquiries on prompts and AUs, reach me @[zeskiyo](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, or @[zeskiverse](https://twitter.com/zeskiverse) on twitter.


	2. Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam struggles with these new feelings and possibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accompanying [moodboard](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/post/190123154240/redwoods-by-zeski-language-english-words-315k). 
> 
> (This one features a bit of Z's POV.)
> 
>  **IMPORTANT:** This chapter contains explicit content. 
> 
> For those who'd like to skip it (but still follow the plot), keep on reading till you find a link (kiss). Clicking it will take you straight to the next safe line. Conversely, clicking the link after the jump (Liam) will take you back to the first link (right before the explicit content). 
> 
> It should work both for desktop and smartphones. Let me know if for some reason it doesn't work for you.

**II**

Staying in is the plan for the next morning. Technically, it’s not a plan, but a consequence of not having _any_. Since Liam has to take care of some work, Zayn is pretty much _guideless_. And yeah, he can always go and explore town on his own. He just... chooses not to.

It’s not for lack of company, either: Deedee invited him to go with her to town. Even if her _“that frown means no Liam today?”_ has rattled him, it’s not that he has better plans. Or he does have, but either they’re impossible (Liam can’t hang out) or unappealing (hello, unwritten novel).

In the end, guilt wins, and he settles for a brainstorming session. It’s a sunny day, ideal to jot down some ideas and play with a timeline. It’s productive procrastination: he kills time till he can see Liam again.

He takes a lounger by the pool. In his hands, a notepad and a click pen. Time to let those creative juices flow. To get weird and throw subplots and hardships at his protagonist. Yeah, that will do.

 _Would_ , if not for the doodles that come to fill his first page, and go on for five more.

“Hello, dear,” a female voice says. “Is Deedee around?”

To find out he isn’t alone is a surprise. Tearing his gaze from a doodled man with curly hair and thick eyebrows, Zayn finds her, the one the voice belongs to. It’s a short lady of fair hair to eye him a puzzled expression. He hasn’t seen her before, so she can’t be part of Deedee’s team.

“Hi,” he greets her back. “She’s out, uh, getting supplies. Shouldn’t be long, I guess.”

The woman makes a silent ‘O’, nodding to herself. She then dissolves into giggling, and somehow there’s something familiar to it. Which doesn’t make sense, because Zayn hasn’t met her before. He may not be _exceptional_ with faces, but he would remember someone from a day or so ago.

“She did mention that, now that I think about it.” She pushes her red glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I guess I’ll come back later.”

Zayn consults his watch. “Wanna wait? She’s been out for some time.”

“I don’t wanna impose, love.”

Placing his stuff on the lounger, Zayn walks over to the old lady. He offers her a hand, and she places hers on his palm. Then, he leads both back to chairs and opens a second lounger beside the one he’s occupying.

“It’s the best I can offer, ma’am,” he says with a flourish of hand, like he sells cars.

The lady giggles again, and from up-close, her dimple is impossible to not notice. Something about her—and here Zayn can’t tell what—puts him at ease. They’re complete strangers, don’t even know each other’s names, and yet it’s hardly like that. It’s as if he’s been with her before, even though he hasn’t.

And for one, he doesn’t think this lady, who could very well be his mum, is his soulmate.

“You’re even more polite than I’ve heard!” she beams. Although she thanks him and compliments his manners, she never takes the seat. “I can see why you’ve won Deedee over! Always weak against a gorgeous face, that one.”

Zayn eases himself slowly onto the lounger, brow furrowed. “You... heard ‘bout me?”

His face must give him away, because then she’s all frantic hand waves and flustered. This is getting weird fast, and _not_ in a good way.

“It’s not like that, dear! I promise!” she blurts out, then more quietly adds, “Aren’t you Zayn, the writer?”

Okay, they’ve officially crossed past normal weirdness into _weird_ weirdness. Would she be a hitwoman? Unlikely. Who would want him dead that much, anyway? Sure, he can think of some faces, but no one that would hire an assassin. Or maybe there are discounts for middle-aged assassins, who knows.

“You know Liam, don’t you? My son?”

 _Oh._ That explains a lot.

“That’s me, yeah,” he replies, exhaling in relief. “I mean, I’m Zayn. Not _Leeyum_. Like you probably noticed.”

“I did, indeed,” she says with a chuckle.

#

Is it possible to have a nightmare and a dream at once? Liam thinks so, and not in how nightmares are bad dreams. To be honest, he’d prefer a dream, because he’d wake up and find out none of this is real. None of it.

God, he would love to wake up any minute. Only that he doesn’t, and Zayn is still before him, at his parents’ doorstep, dressed for a job interview.

“I thought you said we couldn’t hang out today,” Zayn says, closing the gap with a hug. They’ve agreed it’s easier than a handshake. “Glad ya made some time for me.”

That’s questionable. Would Logan showing up at his door and dragging him here considered ‘making time’? If so, yeah, Liam has made time for Zayn. He hadn’t known till now, though that can easily be overlooked. His mum sure has done that.

“What’s wrong?” Zayn asks, pulling back. The fact that he doesn’t get hugged back may or may not give it away. “I shouldn’t be here... should I?”

“It’s not—”

As if on cue—and eavesdropping wouldn’t be above her—Mama Payne joins them, ushering Zayn inside. She has smiles and hugs ready for him, even warmer than usual. Nothing that would hint at them meeting 12 hours ago, as she confirms _“I’ve met him today.”_

After Zayn is introduced to his brother and dad, there’s no way Liam can fool himself for longer: this is no dream. If anything, it gets more real when finds himself beside Zayn at the table.

His parents sit on each end, whereas Logan is across from him. There’s food on the table, and his mum keeps engaging Zayn. It’s a subtle trap woven in societal conventions.

Now, the Paynes aren’t bad. As biased as Liam is, he knows they’re not _the_ worst family. Logan may be too blunt, his dad a bit too stern at times, and his mum often comes off as prying, but they’re still decent people. Not perfect; _decent_. A meal with them should cause no harm… hopefully.

“I have no idea how, but the saddle snags my left foot.” Zayn brands his fork as he speaks. “Next thing I know, I’m bodyboarding through the mud... _without_ a board.”

“Dragged by a horse?” Logan snorts. “You’re shitting me, mate!”

“Wish I were,” Zayn says solemnly, nodding to himself. “Tha’ was all over the local news.”

Mama Payne takes a sip. “Sounds terrifying, dear!”

Unlike her, Zayn just shrugs it off. “Reckon I can always use it for a story.”

It’s Papa Payne’s turn to speak. So far, he’s the one studying Zayn the hardest. Once or twice Liam has caught him staring, but it could always be him paying attention to Zayn’s tales.

“You write, Zayn?” he asks, then takes a sip of wine. “Liam used to write, too.”

“So I heard! Haven’t seen it ‘cos he won’t show me anything.” Zayn turns to Liam, mock glaring at him. “He’s seen mine, but he doesn’t wanna show me his.”

So many reactions. Papa Payne settles for an unimpressed look, his bushy eyebrows arched up. Mama Payne is more subtle, mumbling a small _“oh my goodness!”_ Logan is the worst one, guffawing and slamming a hand to the table.

Then, there’s Zayn: eyes wide like saucers, painfully aware of how it sounded. As for Liam, his soul might as well have escaped through his ears or nose.

Mama Payne tries to save the day, and for this Liam almost forgives her for this dinner trap. Almost.

“I can’t wait to read your book, Zayn,” she says, resuming her meal. “Autographed copy, okay?”

Zayn reaches for some wine, too. “Not sure it’s _tha’_ interesting... Better not get your hopes up.”

“It’s brilliant!” Liam blurts out. He surprises even himself, not for his words, but for he says them aloud. “He’s very talented, yeah,” he adds, turning to a surprised Zayn.

Logan smirks. “You’ve seen his talent and it’s big, all right!”

Liam debates becoming a single child. Fortunately, his mum jumps in to his rescue, scolding his brother. His dad also joins in on his defence, and a single glance from their dad silences Logan for good.

“So, Zayn,” Mama Payne begins, and Liam exhales, thankful for the subject change. “Do you have a girlfriend? Maybe... a boyfriend?”

Maybe _not_ so thankful.

“C’mon, Mum.” Logan drains what’s left of his wine, and bless him for laughing it off. “We’re still on professional life, yeah?”

“ _Anyone_ want more lima beans?” Liam asks, louder than necessary. He loathes the passive aggressiveness, but it’s either this or smothering himself with his food. (And wouldn’t really work.) “Dad? Lo?”

“Please, dearest brother,” Logan replies, holding his plate up.

Once Liam places the bowl down, he checks on Zayn. Imagine attending some dinner to have strangers prying on your love life or joking about your _privates_. Liam can’t imagine that. Well, he _can_ , but prefers not to, lest second-hand embarrassment makes him leave.

“You okay, Zed?” he whispers. He doesn’t catch Zayn’s response, and so he insists, a little louder, “You all right?”

“Lima bean.”

“What?”

“ _Leeyum_... Lima... Lima bean,” Zayn replies, and then he’s giggling as low as he can. “Cheers, Lima Bean.”

“You sod! I was worried about you!”

Liam’s tone is short of indignation, and he knows. He has at least has to _pretend_ he’s annoyed, so he bumps their shoulders together. But then Zayn reciprocates, and they’re both giggling.

Till they notice everyone’s eyes on them.

“This is amazing, ma’am,” Zayn says, clearing his throat.

Whilst Zayn continues to charm Mama Payne, Liam grins at his plate. More and more, every time a knee knocks into his. It goes on for ten or so minutes, eventually losing momentum. Then, it’s just their thighs pressed together, neither daring to pull back.

That’s why Liam takes his first opportunity to leave the table. It doubles as a chance to grill his mum for details, too. He even debates if it’s wise to leave Zayn to his dad and brother, but even worse would be leaving Zayn to his mum.

“What was that, Mrs. Payne?” he asks, as soon as they step into the kitchen. “Why not ask me first?”

Mama Payne shrug it off. She heads straight to the fridge, gesturing to him to fetch cutlery and plates. The triple-layered carrot cheesecake she pulls out, a symbol of celebration in their family, says more than any words could.

Blood freezes up in Liam’s veins.

“You never introduced us,” she says, as if it explains anything. “Probably wouldn’t know about him, if I hadn’t visited Deedee—”

“Deedee,” he repeats. His hands fall heavy to his sides, a loud slap resounding against his thighs. “Of course.”

“I invited him to eat with us.” She hip thrusts the fridge closed. “I can’t see a problem here?”

Can’t see a problem? _Please._ These coincidences are _too_ coincidental. Liam isn’t daft. He knows she isn’t, either. Even if she hadn’t mentioned Deedee, he knows what it means when she asks such pointed questions.

“I can see plenty,” he replies, placing the plates and forks on the counter.

Mama Payne joins him, completely silent. The cheesecake also goes on the counter, and she puts a hand on her hips. Her expression changes into something more serious, and Liam isn’t sure this conversation can improve.

“Is it that wrong that your mum wanna know your mates?”

Judging by her instance, it’s a rhetorical question. Whenever she looks at anyone over her glasses, she _is_ serious. Granted, she gives him no chance to reply, already reaching for the cutlery drawer.

“Just—” he clenches a fist before his mouth, biting on a knuckle “—no more personal stuff, ‘kay?”

“I’m not seeing you tell your dad that?”

“I reckon Zayn is safer with Dad,” he deadpans.

Although Liam laughs, he does believe his own words. At most, he expects his dad to ask Zayn about sports or hobbies, both tame subjects. Logan may throw some joke in, but won’t ask about marital status, either. And to be fair, his mum doesn’t always does that. But when she does do it— he’s better off entertaining her reasons.

After they cut up the pie—surprisingly fast, too—they return with the dessert. Five identical pieces on the plates. Two with Mama Payne, and the remaining three with Liam.

Logan is the first one to acknowledge them, meeting them halfway. He promptly takes one plate from Liam, though his helpfulness is, at best, suspicious. At worst, it’s a diversion from whatever he’s told Zayn in the meantime.

“Cheers, little bro!” He raises the plate, quirking his eyebrows at Liam. “I really approve of _this one!_ Looks perfect for you!” he exclaims, returning the plate he’s just inspected.

Liam’s grip on his own plate tightens. _This night can’t end any faster._

It does end, though. After his mum enlists Zayn to help her with the dishes. After Logan teases him about enjoying a ‘perfect piece of pie’. After his dad invites Zayn to a football night. Only then, the night ends and can Liam breathe again on the way to Humboldt bed & breakfast.

“I’m so sorry, Zed.”

Zayn cocks an eyebrow.

“I’m so, so, very sorry,” he reiterates, wondering when his car got so small. “They’re my family, but I know they’re a handful.”

At this, Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up. It takes only an instant for them to relax again, and then there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tongue also pokes between his teeth.

“Good thing I have two hands,” he finally says, wiggling all ten fingers. Laughter bubbles so easily from his chest, Liam is half-compelled to believe him. “They’re a friendly lot. Just what I’d expect from your family.”

Which... is a little bit worrying, to be honest. Unless, of course, Zayn is overlooking a night of intrusive questions and Logan’s perpetual smirk. That’d be nice of him, but Liam would prefer some truth. Just call his family a bunch of weirdos, so he can (try to) laugh it off.

“Your bro even offered me a lift,” Zayn carries on, unbuckling his seat belt. “They’re fine, really.”

 _Sweet summer child._ Zayn either has a positive first impression from everyone, or he’s incredibly oblivious for a writer. His passion for antiquities and attention to detail say otherwise, so it has to be the first option.

“That was a trap.” Liam rests his forehead on his hands on the steering wheel. “I know my brother and he’d trick you into saying we’re boy— _you know_.”

Zayn might know this, but Liam means it. That used to be a problem when they were younger. Too many times Logan had pretended to be Liam and found out if a boy or girl liked Liam. He grew out of it, eventually, mostly because he’s put on a bit of weight, after marriage, compared to Liam.

“It’s a bit weird to talk to you but it’s not you.” Zayn laughs. “Don’t worry. He’s a top lad.”

Then, silence. There’s no need to look up to notice the change in atmosphere. Liam doesn’t need to uncover his face to know the smile has left Zayn’s face, though he does. There are eyes on him, too.

“Your mum asked me why ya never mentioned me before.”

Whatever it is that permeates the air, it’s now harder to breathe, to speak. Zayn’s eyes haven’t left Liam, and Liam can’t find the strength to meet his gaze.

There’s a truth hanging above their heads—has done so for the night—that they try to avoid. It looms over, sharp and cold, like the blade of a guillotine. The moment it finally drops, something will change.

Liam exhales till no air remains in his lungs. Angling his head to the right, he finds what he’s expected: an intense gaze, traces of apology, and no smile. He might see pity, too, but he prefers not to entertain it— there’s too much already.

“They adore you,” he whispers. His voice is small and he hates how it sounds, but it’s out of his mouth before he can take it back. “Specially Mum.”

Zayn nods. “I understand it’s awkward for ya,” he says, a crease forming in his brow. “If it’s easier for you, I can keep my distance—”

“Mum won’t like that.”

The small laugh is unexpected, comes out spontaneously, too. Liam’s next words also are unexpected to him, but those have intent and are no accident. He debates for too long for them to be his usual babbling.

“I... don’t think I’ll like that, either,” he says, biting his bottom lip.

“So...” Zayn leans forwards, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Think we can hang out tomorrow? You got any plans?”

“I already have plans,” Liam replies. He sits upright, and just like Zayn’s smile falters, his own face also becomes stony. “My place, 7AM. Be late, and I’m leaving without you,” he warns with a quirk of his eyebrows.

Zayn’s face journey lasts as long as it takes for him to reach realisation. It doesn’t seem that he’s understood it—or has heard Liam—till the grin is back on his face.

Brighter, wider, and just enough to bring out crinkles around his eyes.

“See you tomorrow, babe,” he beams. It’s likely involuntary, but his hand reaches for the nape of Liam’s neck, his fingers scratching lightly at the scalp. “Drive safely.”

“Za—”

“Night, _Leeyum!_ ”

Liam is left with the image of a man jogging away, heel clicking as he jogs away from the car. He snorts at it, and can only shake his head at the scene. He hasn’t even said where they’re going tomorrow, yet Zayn has reverted into a child anticipating a visit to the Zoo. _Weirdo._

The analysis of Zayn’s antics end with a glance at the mirror. Abruptly so, too. It’s hard not to startle at the goofy smile reflected back at him. Because this stupid grin is the very one he watches Zayn’s broad back disappear into the bed & breakfast.

“You’re tired,” he tells his reflection.

The hand he brings to massage his neck offers temporary relief, his mind instead replaying the foreign touch from a moment prior. He indulges in it for an instant, then jerks away, almost as if burnt.

“Go home, Payno.” He leans forwards, squinting at his own reflection. “You’re _drunk_.”

He isn’t, however. But it feels appropriate, and there’s comfort in a lie. If he’s drunk, he can just sleep it off and forget all about it in the morning. He can blame it on the alcohol, on the tiredness from handling his family, and whatever else that’s happened tonight that he can’t recall.

It’s best that he goes home, and so he does.

#

It’s a surprise to find a grey Crown Victoria already outside. His watch accuses a quarter to seven, so Liam knows he isn’t late. That leaves a single conclusion, and given Zayn’s shades, it’s the most accurate one.

“Are you even awake?”

Zayn doesn’t move, nor does he reply. He’s asleep behind those dark lenses, from what Liam can tell. Maybe even dreaming of some new ideas for his novel. Inspiration from dreams tends to work best, so Liam wouldn’t hold it against him.

“Zayn?” he insists, inching closer for a glimpse of closed eyelids, or any sign, really. He lightly pats Zayn’s cheek, mostly stroking the trimmed, dark beard. “Oi, you can’t sleep here. Wake up.”

“You won’t wake anyone up like tha’.”

Startled, Liam attempts to retracts his hand. Before he’s able to, a firm, gentle grip finds and roots his wrist in place. It shows no sign of releasing him soon, not even after he resumes the stroking.

“We’re not going anywhere like this, you know.”

Zayn grins, pushing his shades into his hair. “Not sure I still want to, anyway.”

“But I do,” Liam replies, freeing himself. He snorts upon seeing Zayn’s pout, then shoves his bag into Zayn’s arms. “I didn’t wake up early to make us food for nothing, Malik.”

Zayn groans into the bag. He checks its weight by bopping it up and down twice. His frown either means he can’t guess its contents, or simply hadn’t thought of bringing lunch. It’s likely the latter, as his car seems empty. Might be both because he’s curious like that.

“Food is more important to you?” he asks.

“I can’t eat you, can I?” Liam shoots back, tilting his head side to side and making a duck face.

Noon is hours away, yet Liam already regrets this entire day. He regrets his poor choice of words, Zayn’s arched eyebrows, and the realisation to hit them. He regrets the silence that follows, and Zayn’s loss for words. But above all, he regrets that he has any reasons to walk on eggshells, to begin with.

“We should go,” he blurts, slipping into the car without another glance.

Half a minute later, he climbs out, and takes the opposite door. His eyes may be glued to the ground, but his ears still catch Zayn’s little chuckle when he rushes to the passenger seat. Whatever. He has more pressing matters to focus on, like the burning in his ears.

#

It’s not much of an outing, to be honest: they visit a few locations, take more pics, and have a picnic in the park. All plain and simple, too. Maybe even stereotypical, given the red and white checkered table cloth laid on the ground.

“So,” Zayn starts, resting his chin on the end of his harmonica, “you’ve never left this place?”

“Except for visiting the family?” Liam shakes his head. “Not since Uni.”

They’ve been on it for some time, now. Asking questions about old dreams, chatting about expectations and adulthood. For times, things Liam had completely forgotten his answer, or had decided to bury inside. Priorities change when you’re no longer a teenager, you see.

Zayn bleats the harmonica.

“I need places, _Leeyum_ ,” he demands.

But it’s been so long since this question, so it’s hard to remember answers on the spot. Zayn’s cocked eyebrow and readiness to blow another threatening note isn’t helping, either. It’s like one of those quiz shows on telly, except that there’s no prize.

“I’d like to visit South America, I suppose,” he answers after a moment of silence and constant threat of hostile harmonica playing. “Buenos Aires... São Paulo... the big ones, y’know.”

Zayn lowers his instrument to reveal a grin behind it. “Not too hard, was it?”

“We’ll talk _after_ you’ve been subjected to aggressive harmonica playing.” Liam fishes a few nuts from the small bag between them, then shoves one in his mouth and one into Zayn’s. “Also, you need classes, mate. Online tutorial, or something.”

“Oi, I’m trying to serenade you!”

The way Zayn squints and waggles the harmonica at him, should be more threatening than amusing. Yet, Liam struggles a straight face.

“Emphasis on _‘trying’_.”

“You’re _lucky_ you’re pretty.”

Liam stops. Simply freezes up. If not for his incessant blinking, he’d be completely still. And Zayn notices it, too, because his faces transitions to worry in a second.

“Did... I say anything wrong?”

There’s something wrong with his eyes, because then Liam is unable to stop blinking and squinting.

“You— Uh— I’m... pretty?” he finally asks.

There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Zayn shuffles closer. Close enough that their knees bump. His harmonica now sits atop his thigh, and his hands slowly reach for Liam’s face.

“ _Why_ you’re surprised?” He presses his palms against Liam’s cheeks, squishing them till Liam has the mouth of a goldfish. “Yup, still pretty. _Prettier_ , even.”

“You prick—”

And before they know it, they’re rolling around and squishing each other’s faces. There’s no real force in their grips, and it wouldn’t be possible even if they wanted to. Zayn is laughing silently, now. Liam can’t stop giggling, eyes squeezed shut.

Water bottles get knocked down, but they all have caps on. The snacks don’t enjoy the same luck, and nuts roll over the table cloth. They’re making a fine mess, wriggling and kicking around.

Although Liam is against wasting food, this time in particular, he doesn’t care. Right now, he doesn’t. He goes against everything he’s taught Billy, because nothing is more important than getting Zayn to forfeit. And he has the perfect plan.

“ _Leeyum!_ Wait, I’m—”

“Losing, yeah!” he supplies among giggles. “Somebody’s ticklish, eh?”

Now that Zayn’s weakness has been exposed, he’s going all out. The technique perfected on Billy works just fine. It’s simple, really. Once he crowds Zayn round with his body, he works his hands as fast as he can. Up and down Zayn’s sides.

“ _Leeyum!_ ” Zayn wriggles under him, barely getting any words out. “Leeyum! I’m weeing—”

Liam hooks his chin over Zayn’s shoulder. The side of their heads is pressed together, and the only thing they hear is hysterical laughter. Zayn’s, mostly, though Liam also giggles at the reactions earned.

“Say you give,” he whispers, mouth to ear. “I won, Mr. Writer.”

“Don’t! I’ll get—”

It’s easy to complete the sentence. Too easy, indeed. Once Liam bumps into the incriminating swell in Zayn’s trousers, he can’t not figure it out.

“Sensitive ears,” Zayn admits in a defeated tone. With one hand he cups himself, and with the other he gently pushes Liam off him. “Your voice and breathing... don’t help much.”

A part of Liam wants to laugh it off. He’s been a fan of Graeco-Roman wrestling in Uni, for reasons other than love for sports. He’s watched several matches, and he’s seen nearly as many stiffies on the mat. So, he won’t read into much here.

“C’mon, then.” He extends a hand to Zayn, who has his eyes downcast. “There’s cold water in the river.”

This gets Zayn’s attention, if the scoff means anything. Or maybe it’s the amused smirk he gives Liam before letting himself be hauled up.

“You’re a prick, Payne.”

Liam puts a hand in mock hurt to the chest. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about pricks?”

It’s easier to just roll up the blanket with everything on it. The river isn’t too far away, and in a few minutes they’re ankle deep in clear water, eating again.

“It is cold,” Zayn points out, picking a nut. It’s the last one, so he bites it in two and slips the other half into mouth. “We’ll be cold and hungry, now.”

“How do you do this?”

The question isn’t as random as it might seem. It’s born from Liam’s natural curiosity and a little fascination for Zayn’s attitude in general. The nonchalance, the soft-spokenness; this aura about him that says he never worries. Or, at least, doesn’t worry himself sick. It’s so different from Liam.

Diametrically opposite, in fact.

Zayn reaches over for a new bag of snacks, momentarily splaying himself over Liam’s thighs to get them.

“‘This’ wha?”

“Not worrying about anything,” Liam replies. It earns him a frown, and so he elaborates, “I mean, you don’t overthink stuff. You just... live your life.”

Zayn nods over the sound of plastic rustling. There’s no response from him, except by this low humming he does whilst popping a nut into his own mouth. He does the same to Liam, but doesn’t retract his hand, instead tickling Liam’s lips till both laugh.

“It’s all I can do,” he finally says with a shrug, focusing on the river again. “If it won’t help, it won’t help.” He turns to Liam again, face much more serious. “It’s easier to starve as a writer, so it’s not exactly ‘worry-free’.”

“Ever thought about something more stable?”

Liam hates this question he’s heard many times. From own experience, he shouldn’t ask Zayn, knowing the exact effect it has. He shouldn’t, but it’s also already out. All he can do is hope it won’t trigger a 360 and have Zayn quitting writing. Much like himself years ago.

Again, Zayn shrugs. “Those don’t work for me,” he replies. “I prefer to believe—don’t laugh—erm... things will work out, if I keep doing wha’ I”—his eyes pan over Liam’s face, settling on the lips—“love.”

Laugh? Liam couldn’t, even if he wanted to. If he were to laugh, he’d punch himself in the balls. Because to laugh at Zayn, at these earnest eyes gauging him, would be unforgivable. Because there’s something familiar to him here. Something akin to expectation, but the kind learnt through mockery and dismissal. And Liam knows it well, knows better than that.

Or maybe he doesn’t know anything. Or else, he’d know better than cupping Zayn’s cheek on his hand. His hand that’s large enough to hold Zayn’s face, like that’s its sole purpose in life.

“I’m not laughing. I’m _envious_ ,” he admits. “And I already know you’re a romantic writer.”

“Romantic in general, I reckon.” Zayn’s eyelids flutter closed, and he falls further into Liam’s touch. “Sis always tells me tha’.”

Liam smiles at the cat-like behaviour. Now is his cue to freak out and he misses it. More like he ignores it the moment Zayn mouths something inaudible. _“Warm”_ or so he deciphers from leisurely lip movement. No matter. In this moment that seemingly stretches into hours, he allows himself to hold and behold Zayn.

#

Night arrives sooner than Liam wishes it to, and even sooner comes the next morning. Usually, he’d already be up, jogging in the park. Today’s an exception, for he’s spent over an hour—the bedside table clock accuses—wishing to resume last night’s dream.

How real has that dream felt, really? The answer comes to him from under the covers, sticky against his thighs. It all comes back like memories that aren’t his, but rather a film he’s watched. Lips, hands, fingers, skin. Pleasure of a nature neglected to him for years now.

He sighs into his hands. “What the hell am I doing?”

He’ll hardly get any answers from it, yet he repeatedly slaps his palms to his temples. Why is he having dreams reserved to pubescent boys? Why has it felt so real? Why has he tried to return to that lust-filled scenario, when he knows he shouldn’t even have entered the first time? Why—

The phone. He won’t stay alone with these thoughts, which might be a good thing.

 _“Already back?”_ Papa Payne’s voice asks.

“Still in bed, actually,” he replies with a sigh. He rakes a hand through his hair, pushing all of his curly fringe back and holding it up. “No jogging today,” he adds, leaving out his reasons for it. Not that he understands any of this better, but discussing wet dreams with his dad, at nearly 30, _isn’t_ an option.

After a long pause, Papa Payne asks, _“Liam... are you alone, son?”_

“Yeah, they’re not back—”

Liam stops halfway from lying down. No, his dad wouldn’t. He’d expect it from Logan or his mum, yeah. From his dad? Not really, if ever. But that pregnant pause says more than any silence ever could, and they both know this.

“Dad,” he starts, sitting up again, “I’m not—”

 _“Can you come to Rose’s shop?”_ his dad asks, cutting him mid-sentence. _“I need help picking something for your mum.”_

Since it’s not a conversation he fancies, Liam doesn’t insist, and rolls with it. It’s not everyday his dad _wants_ to visit the antique shop, so there has to be a reason. A strong one, if it makes Papa Payne visit the same place he avoids like the plague.

“Sure, Dad.” Liam assesses the mess left by his vivid dream. “Gonna need some time for a shower and brekky, though.”

Papa Payne hums. _“I’ll be already there.”_

And that Liam does. But first, to the washing machine with the sheets and covers, and outside with the mattress. It’s a nice, clear day. It should all be dry by the time he comes back. He won’t return right away, if his feeling about his dad’s random invitation is correct.

Shower also takes a little longer than usual, and for reasons Liam won’t ever disclose. Won’t dare to, either. He’s not particularly proud, but it gets the work done. Guilt and relief that he watches drip hot through his fingers, and swirl down the drain.

He’s just done placing the dishes in the sink, when the house phone rings. And keeps on ringing. Five more times. He debates whether to pick it up, and eventually does, when a second call comes.

_“Having a wank, aren’t ya?”_

His blood freezes up, only thawing when laughter comes on the other side.

_“I’m taking the piss, mate. I know you need your running at bloody dawn.”_

How can somebody be simultaneously right and wrong, that’s beyond Liam. He won’t get into details, either, so he lets Zayn do most of the talking. Gladly.

“Sounds like you wanna join me.” Liam grins. “Are you’re coming with me?”

Zayn laughs. _“In your dreams, maybe!”_

Maybe Zayn doesn’t notice that Liam laughs a bit too forced. Either way works, because Liam won’t repeat the things his sarcastic mind taunts him with. He just wishes Zayn would stop reminding him of this morning’s incident. If possible, he wants it wiped off his mind before meeting his suspicious—albeit not nosey—dad.

 _“I rang to say I’m writing all day,”_ Zayn says after a moment, suddenly serious. _“Can’t hang out today.”_

Liam frowns at his fridge, as if it’s offended him. “You can’t, or you don’t _want_ to?”

_“Ya really don’t know the answer?”_

The defiant edge in Zayn’s voice, more than anything, is what hits Liam. Serious enough that shows intent, not hard enough to imply offence taken. As goofy as Zayn is, the times seriousness is needed, he does act the part. It’s only rational.

The same can’t be said for Liam’s reaction. First of all, he has no right to demand anything. This much is clear, even if he ignores it. Because this is nothing else— he’s actively ignoring the voice that tells him to stop, that it’s not his place. He _knows_ this, all right.

And yet...

_“You can’t think tha’ after last night.”_

Surely not. Thinking back, that’s the one thing Liam cannot assume. He can’t assume that after a night over photo albums of Billy. It’d be hypocritical of him, when Zayn’s eyes had twinkled throughout every toddler anecdote.

It’s more than that, too. Because, by closing his eyes, he relives that night again. It’s easy. More than it’s advisable, and more than it’s deemed safe for him. For _them_.

The scene shapes up in his mind from imaginary mist. There was his sofa, him, and Zayn. Two album photos on the coffee table, and the third on laid open over his thighs. Then, shared over his right thigh and Zayn’s left one. Also shared was the heat between their bodies, but neither moved away.

They stayed. For as long as the night and etiquette allowed. Chatting, laughing, smiling. Forearms occasionally brushed together, and so did hands, without hesitation. At one point, Zayn guided Liam’s hand to a particular picture of a gappy smile, and still they stayed.

Till they didn’t.

Zayn was the first one to get up, leaping to his feet. Suddenly, very conscious of time and overly apologetic. He stood by the door before the third photo album joined the pile, hand already unlocking the door. The only reason he didn’t leave was Liam’s soft _“hug?”_ from behind him.

A hug that lingered, full of wandering hands on each other’s backs and unspoken poking by bulging trousers. Hug only broken because Zayn had enough willpower to get in his car and drive away.

_“Leeyum? You’re still there?”_

Liam opens his eyes to his kitchen. He’s no longer standing on his lounge, nor has his face between Zayn’s hands. Zayn’s eyes have been replaced by his own blurry reflection on his inox fridge. Every trace of Zayn is gone, save for the concerned voice on his ear.

_“Babe? Wha’—”_

“Fine,” he replies, letting out a dramatic sigh. “Better bring me a whole chapter later, Malik.”

 _“Dominant, just like I prefer.”_ Zayn laughs, and by his tone it’s easy to tell he’s grinning. Likely that one where his tongue presses to the back of his teeth. _“Ya can punish me, if I don’t.”_

Papa Payne’s text couldn’t be better timed. And thanking the higher beings, Liam ends the call and leaves home.

#

Just like on the text, Papa Payne’s car awaits outside _Fife Creek_. Usually, it means Mama Payne wants Liam’s opinion on a newly-found antique. Today, however, Liam is here to meet his dad.

Greeting Rose at the entrance, he follows her directions further into the shop. He finds Papa Payne among mirrors and table lamps, inspecting a narrow vase of flared rim. He doesn’t want to scare him, so he approaches his dad and waits to have his presence acknowledged.

“Reckon your mum would like this one?”

Liam holds his own elbow, shifting weight to his opposite leg. This isn’t a conversation opener, but he’ll take it. Anything is better than his dad asking about somebody in his sheets last night.

“She likes the colour.” He juts his chin out towards the creamy porcelain. “She’ll be more surprised that you’re _indulging_ her.”

Papa Payne lets out a little scoff. It’s true that he’s often what deters another random buy, but it’s also true that Mama Payne is an avid collector. If Liam is honest, she reminds him of himself and Logan at the height of their Pocket Monster obsession: collectables are the Payne’s demise, it seems.

“Making sure she won’t stuff the house and have us sleeping outside,” his dad replies, resting the vase on his stomach. There’s a chuckle, and a smile that falters the next instant. “You’re a bit like her on that.”

Liam tightens his grip on his elbow. “Is... everything all right, Dad?”

However, his dad doesn’t answer. Instead, a question is posed back. And it should be unrelated, about as random as this rendezvous, but somehow isn’t. Or, at least, Liam finds it hard to be.

“Zayn— is he still around?”

 _Now_ , Liam is sure. He has no clue where this is going, might not want to know, either. He limits himself to answering the question, and that Zayn’s busy today. And although he doesn’t miss how his dad’s eyebrow cocks, he doesn’t elaborate: Zayn is busy. Period.

Whereas Liam falls silent, Papa Payne talks. Briefly, and enough to explain this encounter. He’s had a small argument about Mama Payne’s interest in Zayn. Not out of jealousy, of course, but due to her blatant _awe_.

“He seems like a decent lad,” his dad quotes her. “I don’t understand why we’re only meeting him now.”

Maybe Papa Payne has thoughts and an opinion on it all. If that’s the case, he’s not saying. Right now, he isn’t. He settles for sparing a sympathetic smile, then resumes his inspection. It’s clear what he says—long past _implying_ —but even clearer is what he _doesn’t_ say.

Liam munches on the inside of his cheek. “Dad—”

“All wounds take time to heal, son,” Papa Payne says in his usual dad voice. The one he uses for advice, and not the one for scolding. “But first, you need to tend to them. You have to take the first step.”

No more advice (or riddles) are given, as Liam watches his dad carry the pearly vase away. Then, it’s just him and all his thoughts, standing as still as the collectables around him. Both thoughts from last night, and several new ones Papa Payne has provided him.

If it’s not enough to think about, then Logan will take care of that.

_Fishing today. Same spot as always. Twins-only event._

His brother’s text reads no less cryptic than his dad’s call, and so he braces himself. This is starting to reek of intervention. _Family_ intervention; not of the divine sort. He figures the latter would have solved everything by now. Wouldn’t even have things get to this point, he supposes.

“This will be a loooong day,” he mutters to himself, joining his dad and Rose by the till.

#

The starry sky confirms it: it’s been a long day, indeed.

Liam drags his feet to the front door. He reckons he’s enjoyed his day, and he isn’t as tired as it seems. Instead, it’s his _mind_ shouldering any exhaustion he might feel. What else to expect, after a day of overthinking?

Sure, he’s grateful for his dad and brother’s cryptic advice. But truth is, he isn’t any closer to a solution than he’d been this morning. Just more clothed and less aroused, and that’s about it. (Here we won’t even count the ‘present’ Logan left in his car.)

He sighs, fishing his keys out. “Don’t wanna see anyone else today,” he tells his front door.

“Hm. I probably should leave.”

Keys skid across the veranda floor, whilst Liam reels backwards into the door. Though his eyes readily catch Zayn’s wide-eyed figure, his brain needs a moment longer. But once it processes it, he unclutches his chest and breathes out, slumping against the wooden surface. This is bad for the health.

“Zayn! What—”

“Thought you’d be hungry.” Zayn holds up a couple of takeaway boxes beside his head. “Logan told me you were out all day.”

Zayn’s arrival may or may not relate to Liam’s increasing willingness to become an only child. It’s hard to tell. Is it healthy? No. Does it make Liam love Logan any less? Also no, though his brother seems keen on changing that.

“We could... uh, have a boys’ night, and stuff,” Zayn offers in a small voice, eyes glued to the ground. “And... I really wanted to see ya,” he adds, raising an expectant gaze.

Liam can’t help the little smile to creep on his lips. He can, however, help the urge to hold Zayn’s chin and coo. Or, at least, distract himself from it by picking his keys up and opening the door.

“Let me have a shower, yeah?” He tilts his head towards the house.

Zayn also tilts his head, but in the opposite direction. “And close the gate?”

“And close the gate,” he agrees, suddenly reminded that Zayn can’t appear out of thin air.

Once inside, Zayn beelines to the kitchen. His familiarity with the surroundings is slightly concerning, but Liam is more concerned about washing up. That, and the potential this situation has to go downhill. Roller coaster drop type of downhill, to be exact.

Better leave Zayn alone.

A cold shower, yes. Liam realises how much he’s needed one when he finally changes into fresh, loose clothes. Usually, one piece. But since he has company—and has already foregone underwear—he compromises on an oversized vest.

“Hope you left some for me,” he jokes, drying his hair as he steps into the lounge. “I had to wash—”

Liam halts in his tracks, his towel dropping to his feet. Are those... candles? And upon sniffing sandalwood in the air... _scented_ candles? Two paper bag-brown candles sit in water-filled saucers. The takeaway boxes pile up in two towers atop the coffee table, and despite each heap accompanying a plate, only one has cutlery on it— a single fork.

“Tha’ one is yours, obviously.”

The little dorky laugh prompts Liam to turn around. From the kitchen, Zayn watches him, leant against the fridge.

“Only your favourite stuff,” Zayn carries on, face breaking into a smirk. “But if you feel daring—” he waves a narrow, long packet “—I can show ya something good.”

Liam glances at the coffee table, then at his fork, and finally sets his eyes on Zayn. The longer his gaze lingers, the more Zayn’s grin falters. He wants to say something, but— what exactly? His mind, again, buzzes with his dad’s and brother’s voices, now added of Zayn’s own words.

His options are clear. He sticks to his fork in his hand, and everything remains unchanged. He experiences nothing new, clinging to routine, to familiarity. All of the same safe old, just how it’s been for years.

Or he can choose something else.

The second option— _chopsticks_ —dangles from slender fingers. They hold novelty, experimentation, _risk_. All things that come along with Zayn, and that Liam has learnt to associate with the writer. Dare he choose that, he’s in for the messy, for the new.

Change. Funny how this word tastes in his mouth, when nothing around him has changed. Actually, that’s not true. Things _have_ changed, if only in ways he hadn’t wished for. Things have changed, and so has he: he’s changed into opposing changes.

Is it even about food any more? Liam can’t tell.

“Too much again?” Zayn asks, visibly wincing. His silent ‘fuck’ isn’t lost on Liam’s eyes. “Sorry.”

This time, though, Liam isn’t taking apologies. He closes the gap between them in two wide steps, grabbing Zayn by the nape of his neck. Just as swiftly, he abandons his fork and pulls their bodies together, sliding his tongue past Zayn’s lips. It’s only the lack of response that has him step back after an instant.

They blink at each other. The frantic glancing between lips and eyes lasts as long as their first kiss, and then it’s Zayn’s turn to lean forwards. Inhibitions are long forgotten, as he also uses his tongue to explore Liam’s mouth. His hands, equally hungry, crawl under and up the vest, skimming every inch of Liam’s hairy chest.

“I want you.”

And then it clicks. Not that it’s ever needed confirmation, but it bridges Liam’s own actions to Zayn’s reaction. Because, now that Zayn has said it, there's no room for maybes of interpretations: it’s explicit and clearer than ever before.

This is what Liam craves, passion, reciprocity, to be seen. All of which stands before him, wordlessly pleading for permission. And if he agrees, if he does allow it, that can be his and only his. Right here and right now.

“I want you, too,” he breathes out, going for another needy kiss.

From now on, everything is muscle memory and instinct. Liam tastes as much as he can of Zayn’s tongue, barely halting when a hand tries for access to his trousers. These pesky layers remain in the way, and must be dealt with.

Zayn agrees, as he starts fumbling with Liam’s drawstring.

It's frantic. Way more than necessary, though it barely registers with Liam. The moments it does, that's because they're forced to interrupt their kisses and take their shirts off. But once those hit the floor, they're all over each other. Skimming skin. Biting and sucking at neck, earlobe, lips— any part desire compels them to.

Trousers prove a bigger challenge, though. Lest they fall and take it to the hospital, they part so each can take off his own trousers. That doesn't make it any less arousing, however: eye contact builds up anticipation between their bodies.

“Fuck!” Zayn hisses, the friction between their dicks eliciting a gasp. He doesn't shy from cupping Liam’s arse cheeks and spreading them apart. “You're amazing, babe!”

The words jolt straight to his groin, Liam supposes. It'd explain why he's twitching and sticky against his stomach. And okay, it may also be his intermittent humping against Zayn’s hard cock, but the praise also affects him.

He catches Zayn’s bottom lip between his, finger hooked in the hem of Zayn’s boxers. “Off with this.”

Free from the shackles of fabric, skin on skin prevails. It's sticky of anticipation, and so, so right. Zayn deepens the kiss with the help of one hand, whilst the other one strokes both of them at once.

Liam can't tell who initiates it, but suddenly they're on the floor, too. Any and all brain activity focus on sensations. Rational thoughts are long gone, a luxury they don't have the privilege of now. Except for a spark of lucidity when Zayn tries to finger Liam, that is.

“I haven’t— I have to—”

But Zayn gets it, simply capturing his lips again, and commanding in a gentle whisper, “I have. Fuck me.”

If his point isn't explicit enough, he surely takes care of it by wiping Liam’s pre-cum with his fingers. He then turns, and slides his slick middle finger into himself. So easily, it would make Liam a little self conscious about leaking this much already.

“Fuck me, _Leeyum_ ,” he repeats, back arching so his neck is exposed.

There is so much to unpack, and so little time for it. No time, given that caution isn't exactly on their minds. Because Liam doesn't object, doesn't question the request. Because his lips suck on Zayn’s shoulder, and his hand replaces Zayn's middle finger with the tip of his cock. Sure, he doesn't push in, but he leaves it there, foreskin rolled back to better slather the welcoming entrance.

From then on, it begins a teasing game that neither can win. Zayn, fondling Liam’s balls and stroking Liam into him. Liam, thrusting with gentleness and increasing how much access he requests of Zayn’s hole. The longer it goes, the messier it gets, but also easier to succeed and harder to resist.

Till they both give in.

“Fuck,” Liam hisses, closing his eyes to Zayn's walls around him. “I'm all in, babe.”

Zayn acknowledges it by pressing his back flat against Liam’s chest, and guiding both their hands over his body. Right hand travels south, over his abs and straight to his dick. Left hand goes the opposite direction, groping his pecs, and finding a home for its middle finger in his mouth.

Words fail to describe it, and Liam and his sparse coherent thoughts suspect they can’t come up with any, either. He starts the small thrusts, eyes still closed, so he clings to everything. Mostly his sanity, because Zayn also pushes onto him, synchronising their movements. Every kiss, stroke, and inch of skin counts.

Still, Zayn wants more, wants to give more of himself to Liam. It's the conclusion to reach when he bends forwards, careful no not let Liam slip out. The absence of warmth on his chest forces Liam to open his own eyes. That's when he sees Zayn tap his own lower back, and honestly can't get clearer than that.

Liam places on palm splayed over the small of Zayn's back, and with the other hand, now covered in Zayn's pre-cum, grips Zayn's hip. Then, he starts pounding, gently yet steadily. A little faster when his ears catch a _"There, babe!”_ among moans.

He keeps it for a moment, beholding how Zayn’s body swallows him whole, then adjusts so he can lie on top of Zayn's back and thrust faster. He’ll pull out, circle Zayn’s entrance with his dick, then slide in again, letting Zayn’s walls peel his foreskin back. In and out. In and out. Slower with every repetition.

As much as he'd like to keep it forever—a hyperbole provided by his lust-hazed brain—he can also feel Zayn on his limits. Every time Zayn rubs his nipples in saliva-coated fingers, a little jolt brings him closer to well-sought release.

“Cum for me,” he whispers, sucking Zayn's nipples.

It's relentless on his part, but Liam doesn't care much. He thrusts, strokes, and sucks till Zayn trembles and warmth spill over his fingers. He can only grin in victory, knowing his contribution to this messy Zayn on his floor.

“Fuck, babe.” Zayn stills the hand on his dick, panting heavily. “You're a beast.”

It would seem like the end, and Liam is a step away from pulling out and relieving himself on his own, but Zayn doesn't agree: he grabs a cushion from the couch and sets it on the floor.

“We're not done yet,” he says, slowly lowering himself onto Liam’s cock. Then, he pulls them over the cushion, for a more favourable angle. “Take me, _Leeyum_ ,” he purrs.

Another kiss and Liam is back on autopilot. The way Zayn embraces him doesn't leave room to leave, and honestly he doesn't want to. He's more interested in tasting more of Zayn, and the sparks of their skin together. The warmth, the hands worshipping his muscles, the moaning— it all adds to this unique scent of sandalwood and sex that sets his soul ablaze.

He alternates two quick thrusts with a longer one, where he grinds his groin on Zayn, going as deep as he can. He does it till he’s on the edge, and the knot in his groin that undoes with a couple more of deep thrusts.

Liam pecks Zayn's lips twice more, before settling for a tight hug. He's spent. It doesn't take long for him to slip out, lifeless.

“I love you, Zed,” he whispers absent-mindedly, letting the caress on his back and kisses to his temple lull him into a peaceful, safe slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> For inquiries on prompts and AUs, reach me @[zeskiyo](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, or @[zeskiverse](https://twitter.com/zeskiverse) on twitter.


	3. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam is forced to face a new reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accompanying [moodboard](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/post/190123154240/redwoods-by-zeski-language-english-words-315k).
> 
>  **IMPORTANT:** This chapter contains explicit content. 
> 
> For those who'd like to skip it (but still follow the plot), keep on reading till you find a link (contact). Clicking it will take you straight to the next safe line. Conversely, clicking the link after the jump (They) will take you back to the first link (right before the explicit content). 
> 
> It should work both for desktop and smartphones. Let me know if for some reason it doesn't work for you.

**III**

Sunlight stirs Liam awake, as do the sheets under his palms. The last night comes back to him in flashes, and in no part does it include a bedroom. Yet, here he is. It’s his bedroom, his bed, his mattress—that should be airing outside—and his sheets.

“Morning.”

Liam blinks twice, deciding this grinning Zayn is no figment of his drowsy mind. His mind wouldn’t be able to reproduce such gentle gaze from memories alone.

“Morning?” he replies, and it sounds more like a question, as evidenced by Zayn's chuckle. “Morning, Zed. I... think I slept a bit.”

Zayn hums. “I know tha’. I was watching ya.”

Bold and sudden confession that chases away any remaining sleepiness. For Liam, at least. Zayn seems as unfazed as usual.

“Stop that.” He pulls the sheets up to his chest, like a lady that had her chambers invaded. “I'm not that interesting.”

The loud _plaft_ scares Liam more than the slap itself, and it's the only reason he yelps. Zayn's scowl doesn't offer much comfort either, and this 180 in mood is worrying, at the very best.

But it needs no explanation, as Zayn's features softens, and he reaches for Liam’s hands. Finger by finger, he pries the sheet from Liam's clutches, and even more slowly peels it off.

“You _are_ beautiful, _Leeyum_.” Two of his digits run over hairy pecs and each division of abs. His hand goes as low as Liam's navel, and twirls its hair. “You have nothing to be ashamed.”

Maybe it's not something to cry about, maybe it's an overreaction. Whatever it is, to be seen, to be heard, or whatever— this is different. Unusual to a level it's almost foreign to Liam. But when Zayn says it, his eyes don't leave Liam's. His brow furrows as if he’s processing how Liam would even believe otherwise, as if he's spoken some universal truth.

And Liam cries. Not right away, nor loud, but tears prickle his eyes, and he knows there's no holding back. Especially when this warm embrace offers a _“gorgeous inside and out”_ whispered to his ear. Here he lies, bare—and all senses—being told that he’s enough.

Tears fall down till they're no more. Sniffles are all that's left, and even them are kissed away— eyelids, cheeks, forehead, nose and lips.

Zayn wipes at Liam's eyes with both thumbs, beaming at him. “Should be illegal be this cute crying.”

Liam snort giggles. “Dork.”

“I'm not lying, though.”

“You got us here?” he asks, to which Zayn nods once and flex a biceps. “I’m impressed that you can carry me, honestly. I know I’m heavier.”

“That’s so you know wha’ I can do to you.” Zayn quirks an eyebrow. He glances down at the twitch of Liam's dick between them, breaking into a rather smug smirk. “I think somebody likes tha’ prospect.”

 _Traitor body._ Liam will blame it on the morning, even though waking up with a stiffy has only recently been reintroduced to his routine. It's nothing to be ashamed, either way. He doesn't care, and the fact Zayn rolls over him for a naked hug—and equally hard—makes it mutual.

“Had you take a wee and clean up, too.” Zayn rubs their noses together. “You were almost sleepwalking.”

Warm. So warm. It may be Zayn’s body heat or the gesture. Liam can't tell. What he does know is that he could melt any moment, and, to avoid that, he squeezes Zayn as much as he can, rubbing his back profusely. He snuggles Zayn for all comfort his arms offer. It's familiar, a novelty, inviting and thrilling— all at once.

He could stay in bed all day and forget about the world.

But Zayn has other plans for them. Or perhaps not that— Zayn has _additional_ plans for them. Something other than cuddling till their stomachs demand they get up. Something less _innocent_.

Slowly, Zayn pushes himself up, unceremoniously straddling Liam's hips. He gives that mischievous tongue-pressed-to-back-of-teeth grin upon hearing the small gasp, Liam's dick lodged between his legs.

“This is ace.” He runs a palm over Liam's chest, then plays with the hair on it with his fingertips. “Makes a sick pillow.”

Liam glances at his own chest. “I used to shave. At some point I just... stopped, I guess.”

Not missing a beat, Zayn leans forwards till his lips ghost Liam’s. “Glad you don't anymore ‘cos it's beautiful.”

If only Zayn knew of all the times Liam heard the opposite. All the things about _“hygiene”_ and how _“gross”_ body hair is. That this very chest hair Zayn calls glorious has been deemed “icky” at one point. The reason for many passive-aggressive presents in the past: body groomers, one-year vouchers for waxing, and many others.

Then, there's Zayn. Outspoken and shameless about how much he loves it. Not an ounce of hesitation about nuzzling his face on it, or circling Liam's nipples with his tongue.

“Not gonna rush this like last night,” Zayn says, audibly inhaling Liam's scent. Liam can also feel a small drop on his stomach, so there's no doubt about the mutual satisfaction it brings. “I wan’ the full Payne, _Leeyum_.”

Liam sucks his bottom lip in. “You're a tease. And a good one.”

“Praise fuels writers, yeah?”

Well, Liam would point out he doesn't write any more. If not for the second tongue to occupy his mouth, he totally would. But he also doesn't take it as Zayn seeking verbal responses. Not the coherent type, anyway, as a skilful tongue runs down his torso.

“Told ya I wan’ the whole thing,” Zayn says, kissing his obliques.

#

“Wait, do I smell sex?” Logan sniffs the air. “Somebody got lucky!”

Liam fights a titter. “Belt up, already!”

But Logan doesn't heed it, and if anything, gets more aggressive in his assertions.

“If I'm wrong, you can give back my little gift... unless you can’t, of course.”

Matter of fact, Liam can. Mostly for not touching the bottle of lube and condoms left in his car. But then, he’d open a bigger can of worms. He's not particularly proud of unprotected sex, but it's happened. Zayn has also agreed on their shared irresponsibility, and they're going to play safe from now on.

Which, in turn, implies more times—no pun intended—to come, meaning _another_ can of worms for Liam’s collection. It seems he’s collecting those now. Hurrah for the Payne collectable fever. _Ugh_.

“It's good to see you smile again,” Logan says. He picks and throws an apple up, then snatches it mid-air for a bite. “His dick that good, huh?”

Liam halts his knife halfway into his cucumber.

“How do you even know it wasn’t me—” He notices Logan’s smug smirk and knows he’s walked into a trap. Worse yet: he’s had an entire tap dance performance on said trap. “I hate you. You know that?”

“I just want to see my lil’ bro happy.” Logan pokes Liam’s cheek dimple. Even if he says ‘younger’, a 5-minute interval mean nothing to Liam. “It’s been a long time.”

That’s yesterday’s fishing all over again. Only _twice_ as bad. At least then Logan had spared Liam some kindness and only asked if he’d felt like kissing Zayn. And when Liam reluctantly admitted to a wet dream with Zayn, he advised, _“Follow your heart.”_

Then, sneaked some lube and condoms into Liam’s glove box. _Cheeky sod_.

“Aww! I love you, too, Li!” Logan hugs, and nuzzles their cheeks together.

Liam understands that chasing his brother with a half-chopped cucumber is self-defence.

#

By the time Zayn stops by, Liam has kicked his pesky brother out and had a nice shower. He’s greeted with a brief hug, and can't fight a smile upon receiving a soft peck on the lips. An affectionate gesture so natural, he doesn't even blink.

“It's a bit longer than the last time,” Zayn says, rummaging through a paper bag in his arms. “Hope it's not too much for you.”

Liam sucks his lips in. “You weren't that worried this morning.”

Zayn’s eyes snap from the contents of his bag to Liam. His expression goes from cocked eyebrow, to a squint, and finally become a lewd smirk.

“Wasn't talking bout tha’, naughty Payne,” he replies, walking up to Liam. “Maybe later, if you're a good lad.”

They dine under candlelight, sat across from each other. Nothing too fancy, even though Zayn praises it as the best thing he's eaten after his mum's cooking. A bit biased and all, but Liam takes it. Mainly because Zayn forces him to. It's not their first time arguing over compliments, and this time Zayn is better armed, too— he silences Liam with a finger to the lips and a kiss to the knuckles.

And Liam just lets him. There's not much to do. Most of his attention goes to their footsie game under the table, as well as the mindless giggling it evokes. Like they’re teenagers out on a first date. Zayn touches him, and he touches Zayn back. No questions asked.

Giving it some thought, many aspects of their relationship go unspoken. Like piling up the plates for washing, or putting the candles out. Usually, visitors don't do that. Neither does Liam request help. But Zayn is already on it, and they're doing chores and chatting and teasing each other with foam and stealing little kisses.

Liam fears he might be growing used to it.

“Tell me wha’ you think tomorrow,” Zayn says reaching for the doorknob. “Same time?”

Liam’s heart drop. Perhaps, he's _already_ grown used to all of this.

“Aren't you... staying?”

There go the words before he can stop them. If by themselves they already catch Liam off guard, even more unprepared he is for Zayn’s immediate response.

“If you wan’ me to.”

Silent communication takes place again, as Liam gently pries Zayn’s hand off the door and lead them to the bedroom. Clothes hit the floor, and each of them slips under the covers from one side. Zayn passes his manuscript over and lays his head on Liam’s lap.

Like this they shall remain till sleep wins. Which takes a few hours, but once it happens, the morning sun floods in.

Liam smiles against the head on his chest. What a sacrilege to interrupt such a peaceful sleep, but he has no choice. He'll make up for it, though.

“Babe?” He gently shakes Zayn, who stirs very cat-like. “I need the loo.”

Zayn’s hand feels its way down, squeezing Liam twice. Probably to attest his statement.

“‘Spose so,” he mumbles back.

Still, he doesn't move off, neither releases Liam, though he provides regular, light squeezes and stroking.

Liam can feel a knot forming south.

“Babe?” he tries, even softer than before.

Zayn nuzzles into his chest. “You're warm.”

“Cheers, but I can't pee on you. Or on my bed.”

Disregarding a few implications, crossing into uncharted territory he suspects they shouldn't, he _can_. It doesn't mean he's going to, though, and he won't.

“I'll wash your back, if you join me,” he tries, leisurely tracing a line along the arm draped over his chest.

Zayn lets out a dragged-out purr. “...Deal.”

There may be a chance for regrets, and before it comes to reality, Liam drags them into the shower. If they think too much, they're never getting ready. He can't risk that. He much prefers the cold stream that earns him groans and a face buried into his chest.

And maybe Zayn doesn't share the same opinion, or not entirely. Whichever it is, they still find time for scrubbing, kissing, and fondling. Their body heat is their only source of warmth, providing the best excuse for all friction they can get.

Might as well make the most out of it, as pointed by incriminating evidence that whirls down the drain.

Drying up is easier, seeing as Zayn’s drowsiness has been washed away. If this configures a better situation, well, that's still debatable in Liam’s eyes.

“Kinda starving.” Zayn clutches his own stomach in an attempt to silence an undisguisable groan. “More than ‘kinda’, actually.”

“There's nothing in this house you can eat right now,” Liam replies well-humoured. His initial chuckle is gone the moment Zayn study him, head to toes and back up. “Definitely _not_ what you’re thinking. I gotta make something.”

“No idea.” Zayn shrugs. “Didn't say anything.”

Liam throws his towel over Zayn’s face. “You don't have to.”

It may or may not have Liam tackled to bed, just like it may or may not lead to a naked tickle fight. Hard to tell between all the kisses and giggles. What Liam knows is that it takes them longer than necessary to get dressed, but it's also so worth it. Although their stomachs don't share the sentiment.

A fry-up should replenish their energies, as per Zayn’s suggestion. _“I'll need more energy later tonight.”_ There's no shame, or actual attempt at masking his intentions. Bold, straightforward, and just a little sensual.

On this (not so) veiled promise of unspeakable fun they eat, till the phone rings.

Liam’s first reaction is to pat his pockets. Right, then left. Empty. It reminds him he hasn't pocketed his phone this morning, like he religiously does. It's then that he realises it's the house's phone ringing insistently.

Swallowing hard, Liam pushes himself off the table and finally picks up.

_“Why aren't you picking up your phone?! I've been calling the whole morning!”_

“I... I don't know where I put it,” he half-lies, flinching at the booming voice on the other end. “Sorry.”

_“What if Billy got hurt and I needed help?”_

_You're a few states too far for me to help in an emergency_ , he thinks, though settles for keeping his thoughts in. “It won't happen again,” he replies, instead.

 _“I hope this really is the last time,”_ Miles chastises. _“Well, if you still care for your son, Billy wants to talk to you.”_

Suddenly, the world accelerates for Liam. He's not dizzy or even moving, yet it seems that the floor slides from under his soles. It's a free fall, but also not really. It's as if he has to catch up to a train that's always a metre ahead of him, no matter how much he runs.

“You're all right?”

The soft whisper pulls Liam back to Earth. The world has decelerated to normal speed again. Either that, or it's the gentle hand on his to anchor him all of a sudden.

“Sure,” he tells Zayn. Or Miles. Both, even. His only certainties are that his smile is for Zayn and that his gesture doesn't assure to those furrowed, dark eyebrows. “Where's he?”

Zayn must get it, because he leaves without further questions. Disappears towards the dining table and there he eats, alone and faster than before.

Fortunately, Billy doesn't want to chat much, and that leaves Liam free to make up some excuse and save his ears from Miles’ preaching. He doesn't think twice before wishing a safe trip back and cutting the call short. Right now, he needs to check on Zayn.

“Zed? Babe?”

Zayn returns to the table, manuscript in hand. He drops the stack of pages with a dry slap, then takes his seat.

“Why do you let him talk to you like tha’?” He crosses his arms. “I could hear him yelling from _here_.”

As much as Liam would like to call it a misunderstanding, that the phone's volume is high, he doesn't believe that's what Zayn seeks. He's not even sure Zayn wants an answer at all, to be honest.

He swallows a lump. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Tha’ he treats you like rubbish, or tha’ you accept tha’ shit?” Zayn lifts his stare off his empty plate, eyes sharp and inquisitive. “‘Cos I only know you don't deserve it, _Leeyum_.”

“You don't understand.”

“I don't.” Zayn shakes his head vehemently. “I don't, ‘cos you deserve more, but you're”—he gesticulates to the room—“here! You're here where ya believe it's safe, when it’s not!”

And Liam shrinks. And then a little bit more. Because even now Zayn’s voice remains collected, something his brain doesn't identify. He identifies annoyance and some frustration, but besides that, nothing is familiar. He doesn't know what to do when he's not yelled at, and just nods and agrees in hopes it’ll end. He doesn't know how to deal with this, and that's no good.

“What do you know about risks?Tell me!” His voice shouldn't be this loud, he doesn't want it to be this loud. “You live like the blooming wind! I’m already risking everything I have just being right here with you!”

“You know wha’?” Zayn pushes himself up, dusting his hands off and throwing them over his shoulders. “Do wha’ you wan’. Find me when you decide not to be a royal prick.”

 _Shit._ “Zayn, wait—”

But it's too late. Zayn is out the door and into his Crown Victoria, driving away without a look back. Liam is alone again, his only company being this weight on his shoulders that try to drag him through the floor. _Fuck._

Without Zayn this house feels as empty—perhaps _more_ —as the day of Billy’s departure. There's nothing here that indicates Zayn’s presence, either. Nothing but a slightly crumpled manuscript on the dining table. Liam picks it up.

Page 70. Last night, he’d reached 69. He's sure of it. The protagonist chats to his friend about his dream trip: hitting the road for inspiration for a play. The details allow Liam to picture the character talking, or maybe it's just how he remembers Zayn talking: passionate, eloquent, a twinkle in the eyes.

“‘Are you going back home?’ Arlene asks. This question drops a heavy silence between them. ‘Home is wherever you feel welcome,’ he replies, eyes suddenly downcast. ‘I don't have many places like that.’,” Liam reads out loud.

So far, the autobiographical nature of this work is clear. And if his interpretation is any accurate, Liam can only wonder why Zayn would feel like that, what would bring melancholy equal to the protagonist’s. And it's this newly sparked curiosity that has Liam skimming through paragraphs, skipping ahead whilst barely digesting every couple of words he does read.

“‘Conformance rewards those who follow it, but also severely punishes anyone daring to defy it.’ His smile makes a brief appearance, and somehow it means nothing, it is hollow. ‘Sometimes, you're a stranger among your own, and home is hard to find. _If_ you ever find it.’”

Liam stack the pages together, patting them against his table. He recalls asking Zayn his reason to leave England. Just like he remembers never getting a straight answer, and then dropping the subject. But if this story is about Zayn, and that _‘otherness’_ tattoo has a meaning beyond a writer's quirkiness, then...

“Oh gosh.” He covers his mouth. “Zed... I didn't— Oh gosh.”

His first impulse is to grab his keys and drive to Deedee’s, find Zayn and apologise. It seems logical. If he's fucked up as much as he thinks he has, a proper apology is in order. Then, he also can't face Zayn right now, without letting things cool down a bit. What's he to do, then?

Busy himself with other things. Things that are Zayn-free and Zayn-unrelated, for his own sanity. And maybe it appeals to him as a good idea to visit his mum (on his way there), but his opinion changes as soon as he steps into her kitchen.

“How come Zayn isn't with you?”

Silence. There's a simple answer, but somehow nothing appropriate comes to mind. Given that there's even anything appropriate about this mess he's knees-deep in.

“He's... busy.”

Opting out is his best choice here. If he gives dead-end answers, he can shorten this talk to something more palatable, like this very sentence. His mum can move on, he can grab what he needs and return home to his thoughts of... whatever is this going on right now.

“Busy? For you?” She blows a fat raspberry, squinting and shaking her head. “Find that hard to believe, Liam James.”

Can your own kids be a bad influence on you? Liam only asks because Logan may have corrupted their mum. And maybe it's actually the other way around, and he shouldn't expect different after that surprise dinner, but still...

“You two had a fight?” she insists, taking a spray out of her cabinet. “What happened?”

When met with more silence, Mama Payne guides them both to the stools by her kitchen island. Although Liam doesn't dare to meet her eyes, her inquisitive gaze burns him like summer sun on a beach and _no_ sunblock.

“Everything all right with Billy?” She encases his hand with both of hers. “Is that it? Where's Mi—”

Her sudden and long pause forces Liam to look up. He knows she hasn't moved; her hands remain on his. But also, the abrupt pause means she's figured out, and increasingly cold hands or not, he would prefer to not miss it.

“...Mum?”

Mama Payne exhales so emphatically she nearly neighs. She mumbles to her side something about a promise (that whatever details are lost on Liam), then turns to him again.

“We can always start again. That's the beauty of life,” she states, face slowly blossoming in a sympathetic smile. She also takes his hands to her lips and peppers them with typical mum kisses. The obnoxiously loud ones they do to tease you about _“always being their baby,”_ no matter how grown. “Know that Mum always wants what's best for you!”

Liam means to ask something, get any words past his lips, but he doesn't. _Can't_ , rather. Instead, he buries his face into her shoulder and let the tears flow. Freely and unabashedly. He cries and cries, letting her mum’s embrace comfort him, or try as much as she can.

“Don’t know what I should do, mum,” he says, drawing a shaky breath. “I just—” He shakes his head. “It shouldn’t be like this! It shouldn’t!”

Mama Payne hums and waits till his soul is satisfied. She cups his face between her hands and tilts it till they stare at each other. Her expression is serious, then softens into a sympathetic smile.

“I know you better than anyone,” she starts, wiping at his eyes with her thumbs. “That’s how I also know you never really take care of yourself.”

“I don’t—”

“Let me finish, love.” She takes a deep breath. “I won’t tell you what you should do. But please, think who has the happiness you’re trying to protect. Are you even protecting anyone’s happiness?”

And that’s it. He receives a kiss to the forehead, and watches her saunter away and tell him he doesn't need to return this 1/4 of mould spray. Their conversation just now might as well be his hallucination.

Liam frowns at the spray, though he accepts it. “Thanks… Mum.”

Cryptic advice on his mind and a spray in his hand, he returns home to his chores. There's plenty of them to keep himself busy. More than enough tasks to bury thoughts of Zayn, now that there’s no Zayn to distract him from them.

Zayn’s probably writing and not thinking of him, anyway. So, why—oh why—this siege around his heart collapses on itself, constricting it like a bear trap? Why does he bounce his leg like a bloody pneumatic drill?

Screw this. He’ll tell that Zayn prick he’s not procrastinating his chores any longer. And if Zayn thinks differently, then he's sadly mistaken. Maybe some other Liam, but not _this_ Liam.

What's a ‘Leeyum’, any way? It's ‘Liam’. He better remind Zayn of this little fact, too, while he's at it. Being gorgeous is _not_ an excuse to call people ‘Leeyum'.

It takes two minutes at his door to leave his mum's spray by it and get back into his car. Surely no respectable burglar is going to steal 100ml of mould cleaner? It's not even a half-full bottle. Although, to be fair, burglary hardly evokes respectability.

#

Liam steps out of his car already on a roll. He sees Deedee tending to her flowers and power strolls to her. She must know where Zayn is, and she's telling him _now_.

“Deedee, you've seen Zayn?”

She tilts her floral hat up with the handle of her mini shovel. Like Mama Payne, she returns a bewildered look in response.

“I imagined he'd be with you?” She plants her shovel in the soft-looking soil. “If you don't know, I don't know.”

 _Great._ Knowing that romantic fool, he's probably buying stuff from before his grandparents were born, or taking random pictures because _“nature is ever changing art_.” _Gosh._

Liam waits for no other answers, nor questions. There’s a list of places to look, there's still a bit more time. The only thing that there isn't is a trace of Zayn in these locations, as a few more trips teach him. _Where are you, you romantic dork?_

That's it. Liam has officially given up. He can't afford chasing Zayn around for a lecture, as much as he'd like. His bathroom still awaits him, mouldy and unclean. He'll return home and find that... a grey Crown Victoria parked in front of his gate.

There's maybe half a second between Liam seeing the vehicle and jogging to it. He knocks on the window, which the driver rolls down with a few turns of a lever.

“Uh, hi, _Leeyum_.”

Liam blinks repeatedly. “I was looking for you. Where were you?”

Zayn gives a sheepish smile. “Here waiting for you?”

Oh. Explains why Liam couldn't find him anywhere, perhaps. That's the one place left to look for him, though also the most unlikely, as far as Liam is concerned.

“Want— you wanna come inside?”

Zayn snorts. “Thought we agreed on playing safe?”

Is this what's like for a volcano? A burning that spreads from the core and blows steam off the top? Because Liam suspects there's no air piping out his ears, along with the crimson certain to ride up his neck and ears. And sure Zayn’s widened eyes imply it's spontaneous, but things in the subconscious often are.

And then it's the two of them reverted to two teenagers, unsure how to navigate the awkward atmosphere. Their agreement is sealed along with a roll of Zayn’s window and a slam of his door.

Suddenly, Liam becomes hyper aware of his surroundings, of Zayn’s footsteps following him inside. Of Zayn’s breathing, as well as how their shoulders brush together on their way in. He's too aware of the man behind him, the man's embarrassment, and of their simultaneous existence in this same space.

“Zed, I—”  
“I was—”

“You first,” they say in unison. It's so ridiculous, neither can fight a small smile.

“I'm sorry, _Leeyum_.”  
“Zed, I'm sorry!”

“Let me lead, ‘kay?” Zayn reaches out for Liam’s hands and brings them to his lips. “Just this time, babe.”

Liam complies. There's little to do when Zayn’s voice is so small, in contrast with his eyes so imposing and stern. Not in a negative way, but more like telling him it's important for Zayn, and maybe both of them.

And so Liam listens. About how unfair it is to pressure him into changing his reality, and how life is more complicated than that. He also listens to an unabashedly confession of desire and wanting. Because, if Zayn recognises it's not his place to pressure Liam into life-changing decisions, he's also clear about what he wants— in words and actions.

“I've been more alive this past days than in the past ten years,” Zayn admits, and this is the only time he averts his whiskey-coloured eyes, though very briefly. “I know it's weird, but— It's gotta be you, _Leeyum_.”

Liam sucks in his bottom lip. Weird? Absolutely. But what is this ‘normal’, and why does he seek that? What has this ‘normality’ brought him, besides lonely days in a house, in a bed that weren’t even empty?

If normality means more isolation, more of touch starving, then he’ll gladly choose ‘weird’; to be heard, to be held, and to be _seen_. He'll choose, without a second thought, a warm home and warm bed— even when empty. He'll choose laughs, support, and talks of future. A life that has a starring role for him and it’s shared with him.

“Haven’t you heard?” he whispers back, blinking the sudden blurriness out of his eyes. “I _blooming_ love weird.”

“You big doughnut,” Zayn replies, already grinning.

A bone-crushing, soul-warming hug. Liam isn’t aware of his face buried in Zayn’s neck till Zayn pries him off, ever so gently. The same goes for the lingering peck to Zayn’s lips. And one more when Zayn puckers his lips in response. Which leads to another one, and one more, and a fourth one. A fifth one would be in order, but then Zayn acts first, licking Liam’s lips. Not in a sensual way, but like a pet would. He tries again, but then Liam catches it between his teeth and breaks into giggles.

“You love weird ‘cos you’re a weirdo,” Zayn points out. His feet slot into Liam’s, and his hands pull Liam glued into him. “I like tha’.”

“Let me shower first... I’m dirty.”

“I already know tha’, though?”

“Not in _that_ sense!” Liam tries to nibble at his nose. “I got all sweaty looking for you.”

“When you could get sweaty with me? Sort your priorities out, babe.” Zayn shakes his head. “We need to do something ‘bout tha’.”

Liam resigns to a mere spectator, letting Zayn undress him. Trying to argue the implications of licking a sweaty body is futile, and Zayn shuts every attempt with a skilful finger. And once he gets Liam bare, he begins to shed his own clothes.

“Follow me,” he whispers against Liam’s lips, before pulling them further into the house.

“This... is the wrong direction, Zed.”

Zayn halts and stares at their conjoined hands. “You lead, then. Just a bit!”

Once they reroute and reach Liam’s en-suite, Zayn reclaims the lead. Between shower and bath, his choice stays with the latter. This isn’t about getting clean as much as spending time together, Liam supposes. Nothing keeps them from a quick shower, yet Zayn chooses lounging and wrinkles.

Liam watches and waits for instructions. The bath is full in a moment, and overflowing with bubbles. Zayn goes in first, parting the bubble sea with his weight. He beckons Liam in with his forefinger, and then both are cosy, back to chest.

“I thought you were washing my back.” Liam sighs contently when a splayed hand slides down his abs and lightly strokes him. “That’s _not_ my back.”

“Shh! We’re chilling here.”

Liam reaches behind himself, locating the source of this insistent poking on his lower back.

“I’m not hearing about ‘chill’ from you,” he retorts. He means to make it serious, but his giggles betray him. “You don't know the meaning of that word.”

“Around you, I don't,” Zayn whispers, and it's as close as Liam imagines, given the nibbling on his right ear. “That's wha’ you do to me.”

As lips roam down his neck, Liam knows it's over. Their bath, that is. Everything else has just begun, like shown by Zayn’s fingertips digging into the inner side of his thigh.

It should scare him how easily he opens to Zayn’s touch— in all senses. Not any more, he reckons. He accepts what he's given, and recognises he can give just as much and rest assured it’s all appreciated.

“Wait for me in bed,” he manages through breathy words. It takes all his willpower to not give his everything to Zayn right here and now. “I have a surprise for you.”

Zayn halts the kisses, still keeping his gentle flicking of Liam’s nipple. The way he nuzzles his nose into Liam’s neck is no different than that of a cat.

“Better than this?”

“Better than words,” Liam replies. “But I'll need some time.”

Zayn seems ready to turn the offer down, till he plants a kiss to Liam’s shoulder and stands up. The small layer of bubbles little does to conceal his arousal, which wobbles with the sudden movement. He slips out of the bath, but not without intense eye contact.

“We're waiting.” He gives himself a last stroke, from the base to the tip, his grip reversed. “Don't take too long, babe.”

It shouldn’t be a worry, since Liam doesn’t plan on taking longer than necessary. The instant the door closes, he lunges forward and locks it. He'll make quick work and get ready as fast as possible. He's a little rusty, but probably can still prepare himself like a pro.

Is that even something one forgets? Probably not. If worse comes to worst, he'll either rely on muscle memory or ask Zayn for help. The latter being his worst and most unsexy option.

Fortunately, he achieves nice results. _Spectacular,_ if he says so himself. He's ready for Zayn, and—judging from the sound of skin slapping skin—he'd say Zayn is ready for him as well.

“I'm here,” he says. Zayn looks up and immediately halts the stomach dick-whacking. “Bored yet?”

Zayn purses his lips, eyeing the ceiling for a moment. “Won't be if you're with me.”

One of these days, Liam will look up what it means to be affected by words this easily. Seriously. Zayn says one thing, and there’s a jolt down to his groin, his heart skipping a beat. In a way. it's a little bit pathetic. But it also feels too right to concern himself with anything else.

Cautiously, Liam approaches the bed. The towel draped around his waist is lowered on purpose, showing hair lower than his obliques. Zayn’s eyes register his every movement, enthralled, and instead of self-consciousness it arouses him.

His towel hits the floor just as he reaches the mattress. He crawls his way to Zayn, making sure his dick brushes against Zayn’s skin. Foot, shin, knee, thigh, and finally Zayn’s balls and dick. This particular friction causes Zayn’s eyelids to flutter, and a restrained moan comes out, like a hymn offered to him.

“I’m yours, babe,” he whispers against Zayn’s lips. “Fuck me. Fuck me till this night ends.”

That's when Zayn reverses their positions, laying Liam down. His smile is bright and his touch soft as ever. He starts with a trail of kisses to Liam's chest, then revels into damp armpits. Is easy to access Liam's nipples from there, and so he does.

“I’ll make you feel like you’re mine,” Zayn says, then runs his tongue down the central strip of hair of Liam's abs. “My beautiful _Leeyum_.”

It's a good thing Zayn swallows Liam right after it, otherwise they would argue about compliments again. Like this, they just can't. Zayn for his mouthful, and Liam for all the hissing done.

Zayn... he’s relentless, Liam decides. This is nothing short of worshipping, this way Zayn drags his lips over Liam’s slit to taste the pre-cum and how deeply he inhales Liam's natural scent mixed with soap.

There's no prudence in his movements. He drags his lips along Liam’s length, then swallows it to further slather it in saliva. Liam's cock is the centre of his world in this moment, and this much is obvious.

“I'm not done.” Zayn warns, his tongue parting Liam’s ballsack diametrically. “Not even close.”

If they carry on like this, Liam _surely_ will be close. They’ve rushed things the first time, but now that they’re in no rush, he has trouble not melting to Zayn’s lips. They want to devour him, and he wants to be devoured.

Such a perfect match.

Liam’s mind is hazy, focused only on where Zayn’s lips will grace him next. It barely registers the pillow to lift his arse in the air, too. By the time his foggy brain relearns synapses, he's spread out and at the mercy of Zayn’s tongue.

“Fuck!” Liam fists the sheets.

“Not yet,” Zayn teases, kissing around Liam’s entrance. He tugs on one of Liam's balls with his lips, producing a loud _pop_. Then, he seals Liam's hole with his lips, just teasing the rim with the tip of his tongue. “Patience, babe.”

Patience? More like _patient_ , because Liam is sure he'll need a hospital bed when they're done. Zayn is keen on wrecking him—in the most pleasurable way—and he's more convinced of it by the second.

“I'll need some of this,” Zayn says, as he buries his tongue into Liam and milks him for more pre-cum. Again, it would make Liam hyper aware of his own discharge, but it’s never the case in Zayn’s company. “Trying something new.”

Liam nods, watching Zayn’s slender fingers play in his pre-cum till they're coated. Good sex, Zayn has taught him, is messy. Far too messy. And the longer foreplay goes, the slicker and stickier things become. In turn it makes things even better, restarting a cycle of pleasure that's certain to award all their patience.

Zayn sucks on Liam’s rims once more. “I'm going in, babe.”

Liam nibbles his bottom lip when a shy digit outlines his hole. He can't help sucking in a sharp breath when Zayn slides the first finger in. Curious, cheeky finger that's set on exploring him.

The leisurely in-and-out has Liam on the edge. These pillows are the only thing keeping him from collapsing, from abandoning himself onto the mattress. Zayn has him already this worked up with a tongue and a finger. Singular. Is he ready for more fingers? For what ultimately awaits him? He's not sure.

But he's _so_ willing to find out.

“More,” he groans. He knows Zayn grins at him, despite his eyes closed. “Don't tease!”

And maybe Zayn wants it as much as Liam does, because he complies, repeating the milking and adding a second finger now. He also swallows Liam, syncing the bobbing of his head with the thrusting of his fingers.

Liam claws Zayn’s thigh before he comes undone for real.

“Sorry, I didn't think ya were close,” Zayn apologises, once he’s swallowed the little that got in his mouth. He retracts his fingers slowly, then pats Liam’s entrance. “I'm gonna fetch the lube.”

These 10-ish seconds are all the time Liam gets to comprehend what's happening. He watches Zayn jog into the bathroom, dick wobbling with every step, and emerge with condoms and lube.

Zayn has just taken a condom out, when Liam snatches it.

“ _Leeyum_?”

Liam shoves the bottle in his hands. “Hurry up.”

The implications dawn on Zayn, as his frown smooths over. He squeezes a generous amount on his palm, lathering himself up, especially his tip. He repeats it for Liam’s hole, making sure to push some in. Them, he crawls over Liam, kissing hungrily as he starts to slide into him.

Of course, this is Zayn that Liam is dealing with here. It's no surprise that the entire entry is surrounded in tenderness and patience. Liam can't tell if he's more excited about Zayn in him or the attention received. Both, maybe? Nowhere says it can't be both.

“You all right?”

“Just fuck me.” Liam throws his arms around Zayn’s neck. “I’m all yours, Mr. Writer.”

Zayn licks his lips. “That's all I wan’.”

Slow thrusting chips Liam’s sanity away. His mind is barely there, and all he experiences is Zayn: on, above, and inside of him. Somewhere in this Zayn-induced daze, he wonders if these are valid emotions. This elation, this urge to smile as Zayn whispers sweet words to him, whilst completely wrecking him. Maybe sex should feel like this, instead of him finishing himself up after a mechanical in-and-out.

Maybe—and just maybe—this is what he's been missing out up till now.

“Babe, what's wrong?”

Liam opens his eyes to a concerned face above him. Why is Zayn looking at him like this? He wipes at his eyes, and... what's this moisture around them?

“Did I hurt ya? Is everything all right?” Zayn insists, tone just shy of full-blown panic, and cupping Liam’s cheek. “ _Leeyum_ , talk to me, babe!”

“These are happy tears.” He chirps, kissing Zayn's palm. “I just found out I love you.”

“Is tha’ bad?” Zayn blinks. “‘Cos I love you, too.”

“It's perfect, actually.” He leans in, capturing Zayn's lips in a candid kiss. “I wanna be yours more than anything, Zed. Please be mine, too.”

What would seem like a mood killer only improves it, if Liam is capable of an unbiased take on their situation. Zayn becomes even more tender, and until they're ready to resume sex, they don't hold back on caresses and kisses.

Even when they’re ready again, it's the same missionary position. Boring for some, but that to them means closeness and comfort. Fingers interwoven, forehead to forehead, and breathing on each other’s lips.

Zayn keeps thrusting till Liam spills over his fingers and he too releases all pent-up tension deep inside Liam in turn.

“I love you, _Leeyum_ ,” he says, smearing his lips in Liam’s cum and going for a slow, deep kiss.

They take a quick shower to clean up, and get back in bed for a naked cuddle. Liam is more than content with being the little spoon, sighing into this warm, cosy embrace.

“You're my _Leeyum_ now.” Zayn kisses his shoulder. “My smart and beautiful _Leeyum_.”

As Liam kisses Zayn’s knuckles, his soul is soothed. Just for tonight, he wants to believe these words, this warmth in his heart. They’re honest and a safety net he’s no longer afraid of falling into— he won’t hit the ground.

Tonight, they're Zayn’s _‘Leeyum_ ’ and Liam’s Zayn. And it feels right. No matter how much morning comes to change it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go. Phew! I've run out of Ziam references for now. ...or have I? ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> For inquiries on prompts and AUs, reach me @[zeskiyo](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, or @[zeskiverse](https://twitter.com/zeskiverse) on twitter.


	4. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam has to choose between what he has and what he _could_ have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accompanying [moodboard](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/post/190123154240/redwoods-by-zeski-language-english-words-315k).
> 
> My first completed (chaptered) work here. Just ten days shy of completing a year since I started the first draft. :') Rated a little higher than what I'm used to, too. I hope it's been an enjoyable read and possibly inspires you to watch the original. :)

**IV**

“You lied.”

Liam plops a large paper bag onto Zayn’s lap. “Technically, I didn’t.”

“Do I look like a technician, _Leeyum?_ ”

“I have nothing to complain about your _technique_.” Liam winks, leaning away to escape a slap sure to follow his cheeky remark. “C’mon, open it.”

He hasn’t lied this morning, saying he would go for a run. He’s done exactly that. Yeah, he’s omitted dropping by _Fife Creek_ for a souvenir, but he hasn’t lied. Leaving out details at his convenience, yes, yet he’s told no lies.

Liam watches him unwrap everything with exceeding care. Is he planning on keeping the wrapper? Because what’s inside isn’t going to break if he rips the brown paper to shreds. It’s worth the wait, though. The moment Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up, Liam knows he’s chosen well.

“Babe—” Zayn inspects the underside of the box, then taps his forefinger to its lock. “ _Leeyum_ , I can’t—”

“—accept this, but you will,” Liam supplies for him, breaking into a grin. He wiggles on his seat for a bit, fumbling with his pants till he produces two chains with a small key each. “I can’t return these now.”

“You really put them in your boxers?” Zayn snorts, face morphing into a simultaneous frown and smirk. “And wha’ makes you think I’m taking them?”

“I’ve had your _face_ in my boxers, Malik,” he replies, keeping one key, and letting the other dangle before Zayn’s eyes. “A sweaty key is _nothing_ for you.”

Of course, it’s just banter. Zayn’s smirk blooms into a full smile, and it becomes hard for Liam to breathe. Because whenever Zayn beams, and that little tongue presses against his teeth, nothing in the world is more endearing. It's all for Liam, too, so he can admire it with no qualms.

Still, Zayn doesn't take the key. He touches it, inspects it, but he does not take it from Liam. He does, however, expose the nape of his neck.

For the sake of teasing, Liam first kisses the fantail etched to Zayn’s skin, only then clasping the chain.

“Give me yours,” Zayn orders. More of a warning than anything else, as he snatches it before Liam can comply. “I hope you know this is, like, _really_ romantic.”

“It’s for a romantic writer and hopeless romantic, so I really hope it is.”

Zayn waits till Liam faces him again to crawl up his lap. It's just a hug, though no ordinary hug, if they've ever shared an ordinary one. Their bodies slot together, like pieces of a puzzle. Both squeeze however they see fit, peppering affection and kisses to any and every portion of skin available.

Zayn is the first to break their embrace, sandwiching Liam’s face between his palms. He captures Liam’s lips in a lingering peck, grinning and licking his own lips when pulling back.

“I got something for ya, too.” He slides off Liam’s lap, dragging both out of bed.

Liam can't say he understands it well, but what does he have to lose? With no hesitation, he throws some clothes on and follow a shirtless Zayn into the grey Crown Victoria outside. They're headed somewhere, all right. And is unclear, till it's not, and he recognises the landscape around them.

“Two years.”

Liam nods slowly, unsure of how to reply. “Two years _what_?”

“We'll meet here in two years,” Zayn clarifies, eyes sharp and decided. “If you still feel like you do, if you still want me— I'll stay with you and never leave.”

Too many implications to take at once. The gist of it is clear, but the ramifications are much more than Liam has thought about. The tone Zayn uses differs from that accusatory tone from before. It holds passion, hope, determination, and above all, a promise.

“You make not loving you harder than you think,” he says, reaching for Zayn’s hand. He laces their fingers together, bringing their hands to his lips. “I don’t think my feelings will ever change.”

Little does matter if these are big words, or a promise he can't keep. Liam says them because they feel right, they resonate with the pleas of his heart. If he questions any of this, that's simply because he feels late to the party. In that we grow up with imaginary deadlines for life milestones.

They kiss again, but time is cruel and never on their side. Zayn still needs to go pack his stuff, and Liam, well, he has his old life to go back to. A cold, smothering, _Zayn-less_ life— nothing to look forward to.

They're back at Liam’s sooner than either would have liked. There's no way around, so they might as well pull the plaster at once.

Liam steps out, and Zayn mimics it. He has a fabric in his hand. Turns out to be the shirt be hasn't put on. He holds his hand out.

“Give me yours.”

“You don't mean my boxers, do you?” Liam asks, eyeing the red fabric.

Zayn shakes his head. “Wouldn’t mind tha’, but... no.”

In exchange for his white top, Liam receives an old, much smaller _MINNESOTA_ shirt that Zayn puts on him right away. It doesn't quite reach down, baring a thin strip of his skin. Zayn also slips his new white top on, smirking at how his old one hugs Liam all over.

There's jokes and puns ready to gain form, but the moment doesn't call for it.

“Have a safe trip, babe,” Liam whispers into their hug.

“I'll be busy missing you too much for tha’, _Leeyum_.”

Again, they break apart, and it's no easier than before. If anything, all prior times only bring regret that they haven't enjoyed those fully, that they could have hugged more. A lie, Liam knows, but what can he do, really? This is their last hug, and nothing can change that.

Zayn leans in when they break apart, but ultimately halts. He simply mouths _“I love you,”_ stepping back as his hand slides down Liam’s pectoral.

Liam hates it. From his running nose to the stinging in his eyes. Fuck, he can barely see Zayn pull out with this blurry vision. His legs are no help either; unable to carry him forwards or backwards, weighed down in invisible shackles. He can't do anything besides watching the grey Crown Victoria disappear down the road.

Going and going, till he's gone.

Heavy steps carry him into the house. His chest is hollow, as if carved out of its insides. Similar to what he's grown used to over the years, yet worse. While the same in essence, this one feels more raw. _Deeper_. Everything that's come to fill it out has been taken back twice as much, by an unscrupulous loan shark.

Life is ever cruel, and as Liam washes dishes like he can't do to his memories, he hears it: a _slam_ characteristic to a car’s boot. He cringes. His fingers curl up, crumpling his floral tea towel. That he has to face it with his eyes still damp is the cruellest of the jokes.

The front door unlocks, and in bolts a yellow-clad Billy. Liam opens his arms just in time to welcome and hug his son back. He’s missed him.

“I've missed you, too, sleepy mouse,” he says, kneeling down to even out their heights. He lets Billy feel his face out, in return tracing his son’s eyebrows with a finger. “I'm all right. Just a bit sleepy.”

“He wanted to show you his new boat.” Miles eases a bag off his shoulder onto the floor. “I told Dad he'll need a room just for his boats!”

There's a vague nod that Liam can't tell is acknowledgement, or a polite way of hushing the gritting in his ears. Either way, his focus remains on Billy, who carries on feeling up his face with a shy smile.

“Why don't we unpack first? You can play with Dad later,” Miles suggests, patting the trolley. He throws Liam a pointed look, behind Billy’s back, waiting for an answer, and it's clearly not from their son. “ _Right_?”

“Your father is right.” Liam swallows after his words, like they’re a bitter pill. “And you can tell me eeeeeverything”—he tickles Billy as he drags the vowel, then holds a hand up— “during dinner. Sounds good? High five if it does!”

Billy slaps Liam’s hand, then takes his trolley from Miles and disappears towards his room. With him gone, Liam is officially out of social crutches to avoid direct interaction. Not that he'd expect much interaction from Miles. Not after the past three years, he wouldn't.

“My mum said you absolutely have to come with us the next time.” Miles holds out his bag, only letting go when Liam gets a grip on it as well. “She said not even your cute face will save you from her wrath, or something.”

Liam tightens his hold, afraid be might chuck the luggage through the window, or worse: at Miles’ head. Now, it's not like he’s oblivious to Mrs. White’s fondness. On the contrary; he's embarrassed by how much affection she showers him with. More than her son and his husband does, too.

He’s just set the bag on the floor, when Miles comes out of their en-suite, rubbing circles on his temples.

“You didn't get rid of the mould.”

Liam slowly retracts his hand. “What?”

“You didn't get rid of the mould.” Miles repeats, one hand to his hip, and pinching himself between the eyes.

“I’m—”

“Unbelievable! I have to do everything myself!” Miles carries on, striding to their closet and unbuttoning his shirt. “I ask you to do ONE thing within a WEEK, and you do nothing?! What the hell have you been doing?”

Words shoot up Liam’s throat, acid like bile itself. For an instant, resentment poisons his soul, and his only goal is to fight back. Scrap that. He wouldn't call it fighting back, as it's vile and vicious in nature. To say he'd fight back would be a cheap excuse for harming for harm's sake. In this one instant, he desires nothing besides causing pain.

Miles doesn't want to know what he's been doing, he’s sure. How many years have been since he genuinely cared? His question seeks no answer, as it only aims at belittling Liam. And that’s a game for two, but one that Liam isn’t going to play.

“Forget it. I'm gonna fix it,” Miles hisses, grabbing a fluffy towel and leaving.

_“Why do you let him talk to you like tha’?”_

Zayn’s words come as clear as music. Outside from discussing writing, arguments hadn't been something for them save from their big one.

_“You're here where ya believe it's safe, when it’s not!”_

_And where exactly has safety made me?_ Liam wonders. Unfulfilled, lonely and forlorn. He's yet to come up with something positive about staying, other than they expected it from him.

‘They’... Who are this ‘they’? He doesn't even know. Surely not his mum, for she worries about him and his heart first and foremost. It shouldn't be Logan, either, for he always advocates for a spicy sex life. Even Papa Payne wouldn't classify as ‘they’, seeing that his advice comes down to his kids’ happiness.

In failing to find his answer, Liam finds something else. Something warm that bubbles inside him and whispers a single command to him. _Go._

Clothes fall haphazardly into an old suitcase wrestled from under the bed. They won't all fit, unfolded and crumpled like this, but that's a problem for later. For now, Liam is content with grabbing as much as he can. He's had enough. Staying would cause more hurt than leaving, and so he'll leave.

His focus on the task prompts him to initially miss this pair of eyes watching him.

“Billy!” he exclaims, replacing his luggage on the mattress. He rushes to catch his son’s hand, being met with some trashing. “Listen to Dad: I'm not leaving you. I'll be back for you, okay?”

Though his actions contrast with his words, Liam means and believes them. This is his chance to right things for all of them. Billy gets happy parents, and he and Miles leave such miserable lives. To achieve this, change is necessary. And no change will come from staying. Nothing will improve if it remains the same way that got them into this situation.

He holds Billy in his arms till the grunting and thrashing become soft sniffling.

“Dad loves you so, so, so much!” he whispers, peppering Billy's head in kisses. “Dad will love you till your head is all white and your skin all wrinkly.”

“Billy—”

A foam-covered Miles halts on his tracks, wiping his face. Still blinking through it, he stares at the botched packing, then at Liam soothing Billy. If he still doesn't know what's going on, then he's more daft than Liam thinks.

At this point, explanations are unnecessary, and Liam doesn't bother with them. Giving Billy a last kiss, he picks his luggage up, and pushes past a perplexed Miles. Boots on, untied, he's out and headed to his car with a location in mind.

#

He finds Deedee exactly where he expects her to be, flowery hat on and surrounded by gardening tools. As usual, her weary smile spreads upon seeing him bounded her way.

“Hi, Deedee. Where's Zayn?” he asks in one breath. A little too dry, a little too rude, but he can't afford their usual banter today. “Is he still here?”

“He’s booked out already.” She glances at her watch. “Twenty or so minutes ago.”

All air gets knocked out of Liam in this instant. Twenty minutes? That's more than enough to leave Humboldt. Does that mean Zayn had everything packed since yesterday? This unusual readiness point to that. And if Zayn has already left, which direction has he taken?

Whilst Liam frantically rakes his hair with his fingers, a calloused hand stills his wrist.

“He said something about going to ‘enjoy the view one last time,’ but that’d be _literally_ anywhere in Humboldt,” Deedee says.

This additional information puzzles Liam. Not for the Deedee’s words, but for how he should take them. She's right that could be about anywhere in this town. But this is Zayn, so it's bound to have some meaning to him; romantic and sentimental value.

Just like a writer in love with words and—why not say—the world.

“I know where he is,” he whispers. “I know where he is!”

“What? Darling, you're not—”

Liam twirls Deedee around, planting a rather noisy kiss to her cheek.

“I love you, Deedee!” he yells, skipping his way backwards to the gate, blowing her multiple kisses.

Despite these words, most of Liam’s confidence flees him the moment he’s behind the wheel. Assuming Zayn has headed to _that place_... why should he expect Zayn to still be there? Twenty minutes have passed.

Suddenly, he's no longer as impervious to everything in this world.

Liam slaps himself. Hard. Harder than intended, seeing that he can only blink at himself on the rear view mirror.

“We're taking risks here,” he tells his reflection. “Now, drive, you twat!”

Poking his tongue around his mouth... Is that blood he tastes? It's a nice day to grow aware of his own strength he supposes. In more ways than just one, too.

Apprehension clings to his shoulders like he clings to his steering wheel. The closer he gets, the less effective his little bursts of confidence become. And he has at least eight of them in the space of what, five, six minutes?

Fortunately, it's a short ride, and he doesn't have to worry about accidentally ripping his steering wheel off and totalling his car. When he sees an old, grey car by the road, that's when he breathes easy again.

It doesn't take him long to find Zayn, either. Waddling in grass that easily reaches their waists, arms wide open and facing the sun. His eyes don't open, nor does it seem he's noticed Liam’s presence. He's simply there, basking in the morning sun.

Liam approaches him carefully, step by step, ready to surprise him—

“ _Leeyuuuuuum!_ I love you, _Leeyuuuuuum!_ ”

 _For fuck’s sake!_ Liam clutches his chest, closing his eyes to gather himself. He doesn't do too well with scares, he's been told, and he's led to believe it. It's a sweet kind of scare, but a scare nonetheless. And to avoid more sudden shouting, he decides to make his presence known.

“Maybe, but you nearly gave me a heart attack,” he jokes, hugging Zayn from behind. Unlike him, Zayn reacts much more naturally. “Not really a secret when you keep shouting like that, is it?”

Zayn readily covers the hands on his stomach with his own. “I haven't done a good job from the beginning, so...” He laughs and brings their hands to his chest. “Your mum, dad and bro knew.”

“Now I know, too.”

Zayn scoffs. “Doughnut.”

They don't start with Liam’s reasons to be here, and that works for him. Because whilst Zayn explains he's come to appreciate the view, everything is right in the world. Liam simple enjoys the cuddling and that he can inhale Zayn’s smell again.

But as soon as the focus changes to Liam, Zayn steps away.

“Babe? What you're doing?” Liam asks in a small voice. This reaction is the opposite of what he's sought. “I told you I want to—”

“You're not going with me.” There's another step backwards, and Zayn’s shaking his head. “I'm not taking you with me, _Leeyum_.”

All oxygen flees Liam’s lungs.

“Y-you’re taking the piss, right?” He chuckles, then cackles. Every time he blinks it's another teardrop ready to roll down. “You want me to come with you! You just told me—”

“I want more than anything to wake up every morning by your side.”

Liam cocks his head sideways, like a puppy intrigued by some human contraption. “Then—”

“You have a life here, _Leeyum_.” He gestures around, arms wide open. “You can't just leave your son like tha’! And I won't let you do it, either.”

Zayn doesn't stop here, and grabbing the nape of Liam’s neck.

“I wanna wake up every morning beside you. I wanna hold your hand when we’re walking outside. I wanna know what winter is like under the covers with you. I wanna know what a shared drawer looks like,” he says in one breath. “I wanna play with your chest hair whilst we talk about how that bellend editor turned me down ‘cos my main didn’t die on page 271 of blood loss after a gay bashing and that ‘would have made it more entertaining,’ or whatever.”

“That’s... oddly specific.”

“That’s how serious I am ‘bout ya.” He arches his eyebrows up. “ And in two years I’m getting it all tha’. If you still feel the same, I’ll be yours and you’ll be mine. _My_ _Leeyum_.”

They’re warm, the digits on Liam’s neck. Beyond warm, really, as their temperature seems to rise with every word. They’re scorching, etching Zayn’s words to Liam’s skin. There’s intent and passion to the pressure they apply, as well as restraint. At the same time they reel Liam in, they make sure to keep him at a distance.

“It’s so hard to not kiss you right now,” Zayn grunts, gnawing his bottom lip. “I can’t quit you, Mr. Brutal Honesty.”

Liam fails to hold back a snort. “You’re bonkers.”

Zayn leans in, their lips ghosting each other’s. “For ya.”

Restraint is harder to achieve, now that they’ve tasted what’s across the line. Still, a tight embrace becomes their last goodbye. The ache, the yearning— it’s all there, in the 30 seconds or 10 minutes it lasts. It doesn’t matter. However long, it still lasts too short, and Liam’s arms complain about emptiness the moment Zayn drives away.

If his heart has starved for years, it’ll now be in worse condition, for it’s tasted fullness it won’t find again.

#

Time doesn’t heal wounds. It helps dealing with them, lessen painful memories. This Liam learns over the course of his divorce. There isn’t much to complain, he knows. Mile respects his decision, if only surprised that one of them found the courage to bring it up. Too many things to be said, buried in their chests, and getting those out taste like freedom. _Real_ freedom.

Liam doesn’t hold pride in his actions, nor does he deny them. He’s done it all. Given another chance, he would still choose the love Zayn’s given him. In more responsible ways, more considerate of other people’s feelings. His and Zayn’s included.

He isn’t perfect. He’s aware of much. But to live is to learn, and he’s done a bit of studying on that. For the first time he’s taken chances, stepped out of his uncomfortable comfort zone. It’s time he’s faced up facts and chose accordingly. To be able to accept what Zayn has given him openly. No lies, secrets, or shame. He wants freedom to love and be loved. Nothing more, nothing less.

That’s life for Liam from the day Zayn leaves. His passion for writing ignites again, as he revises old drafts of sappy, gay stories. He still works from home, but now so does Miles (from time to time), so they split care of Billy more evenly, as it should have been. Moving back into his parents’ also makes it easier, more natural for both.

Before he notices, two years have gone by. He’s a divorced dad, an accountant and a writer. His life has reshaped, and this new shape is one he can fit Zayn into.

For the rest of their lives, hopefully.

“Stop that!” He slaps Logan’s thieving hands away for what feels like the hundredth time. “They’re not for you!”

Still, Logan pops a chocolate truffle into his mouth. His humming is exaggerated, but Liam also knows how much love has been poured into these. They’re _Zayn’s_ chocolate truffles, so they should live up to the best of Liam’s abilities and intentions.

“That’s no way to treat your wingman,” Logan says between a mouthful. “ _And_ your future best man.”

Yeah, because sending Zayn to his house late at night _sure_ counts as much.

He won’t lie that moment tipped his life round, but admitting it would give his brother too much power. The last thing he needs is Logan acting _cockier_ about contributing to his happiness.

Liam finishes wrapping a sandwich and sighs.

“What’s wrong, dearest brother?”

“He probably won’t remember. Two years is a long time.” Liam places his knife down on the counter. “I mean, we haven’t talked once. What if he found someone else? If he’s married? Has a kid?”

The thing with Logan is that he can be a good brother. As long as he’s not hellbent on teasing and embarrassing Liam, he succeeds. It all depends on the situation and his humour. Which... rarely favours Liam, but what’s a bloke to do?

“That’s rubbish! Lad is crazy about you!” Logan kisses Liam’s temple, hugging his head against his. “Stop thinking and go see him. You’re here because you chose happiness, yeah?”

Liam smiles. “Thanks, but... stop eating, seriously? They’re _not_ for you.”

With Logan’s help, Liam finishes packing the food. He checks one last time for everything, and yeah, he’s not forgetting anything. His bag holds a flask of lemonade, a large table cloth, and a little treat for Zayn. A pack of flavoured condoms, too, courtesy of a certain twin.

Chances are they’ll find use, so Liam pretends to not see them.

He’s just crossed the front door, when a Crown Victoria parks across the street. Liam’s stomach turns like a pinwheel on a breeze. He knows this old car. Wouldn’t ever forget the one thing to bring and take happiness out of his life, really.

“It’s a pity we didn’t bet.” A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and he finds a smirking Logan next to him. No one gets more insufferable when right. “Go get him. Go!”

Liam sprints, haphazardly balancing his basket on his forearm. Never has he had trouble unlocking this bloody gate. In fact, it’s almost as if his motor skills have been lost. It takes him so long, that Zayn comes to his help.

Except that it’s not the same Zayn he remembers. The eyes and hair are about the same, although the latter is much longer. Height remains the same, and maybe it’s the same build, but it’s hard to tell with the narrower shoulder. But even then, this person is not Zayn.

“Are you Liam? Liam Payne?” she asks, seemingly as confused as Liam. “Zayn’s sister, Veronica Malik.”

Liam licks his bottom lip, ignoring the sourness on his tongue. “That’s me. I’m Liam.”

“Hello, Liam.” She attempts a smile that’s gone as easily as it comes. “Can we— can we talk a bit?”

Once inside, Veronica confirms Liam’s apprehensions. The moment she tells him Zayn got into a car crash and gives him the box he's given Zayn, his ears stop listening. A car crash, Zayn unable to see him himself... the conclusion is a nefarious, obvious one.

“Where's the key?” Swallowing has never been this hard. “Where's his key?”

“Lost. Probably buried.”

Buried. Buried. _Buried_. Under the ground. Hidden underground. Is that what she means at all?

“Is he— he's not—”

Words don't come out; refuse to. If it’s what he suspects, pronouncing them changes nothing. _Nothing._

“No, no!” Veronica leaps to her feet. “He's in stable condition. He said, ‘I know he still has his key. And if he doesn't open this, I'll know he's moved on.’”

Sounds very dramatic, very romantic, and very _Zayn_ , though Liam can't tell how much of each, or if there’s any difference. But his lungs loosen up, so it suffices to know Zayn is still alive.

The box’ contents... they're what Liam expects and also what he _doesn't_. He finds his old white top and a Polaroid of them. Several envelopes, and if they're like the first one he opens, they're letters for each month they've spent apart. Love letters of longing and yearning, as well as unashamedly wanton. And here he's just a little embarrassed about the details used to describe how Zayn’s skin misses his mouth. This one is from three days ago, too, so even in hospital he's thinking of dicking Liam down.

Liam hates that Veronica points out his ears are red. Let's say there's blood flowing everywhere and he has Zayn to blame for it.

Buried under the letters there's a book. One that Liam doesn't recognise, in red hardcover and small golden letters. Redwoods, it reads. Inside there's a signature and dedication in wild calligraphy.

_To the one who's given me a crash course on love and writing. To a mate, a lover, and hopefully my partner for life._

_ZJ Malik_

By now, Liam doesn't expect anything else because he's already a blink away from some proper crying. This man single-handedly can make him aroused, laugh, cry, scared and hopeful. And perhaps what's brought them together: he feels what he feels, and he feels intensely. That's what he's learnt from Zayn, and something he'll never forget.

So, of course that when he finds a second copy of Redwoods with a slightly different note and a ring stuck in its pages, he can't help crying.

_If you are reading this, it means our feelings are the same as before._

_But if you wear this band, it means you’re ready for so much more._

_Zayn_

“Cheesy like always.” Liam sucks his lips in, inspecting _Z + L_ inside the steel band. He looks up upon feeling a hand steady his. “Where can I find him, Veronica?”

#

A car trip isn't the fastest way, but they eventually reach destination. Till then, Liam forgets about manners and imposing on someone he's met yesterday. And can he consider he's just met Veronica, really? When he'll say or do something and she points out, _“It's just how Zayn described”_?

She's obviously aware of their relationship, so it makes sense to trust somebody Zayn trusts. Because Liam trusts Zayn. And although vulnerability evokes past hurting and pokes old wounds, he still chooses it. Now more certain than before, as words demand immediate freedom from his throat.

It's another day till visiting hours. Liam’s resolve doesn't waver. Veronica goes in first, at his request. Even from outside the room he hears the distinctive _“Wha’ did he say?”_ to replace an otherwise greeting. Veronica points it out, too, but the voice brushes it aside, _“Did he say yes?”_

Liam takes his cue, stepping into the room. “Why not ask me instead?”

Liam’s heart drops. He's heard about the accident, and logically he wouldn't find Zayn in top shape, but...

He's relieved to see Zayn breathing. No doubt about it. Even so, the suspended leg, the bandaged torso, and the dripping are too much to take in at once. He hears himself draw a sharp breath, and no doubt the other two do, too; it's quiet like a hospital room.

Yet, Zayn’s features light up. His twinkly, fawn eyes sparkle with the excitement to replace their initial bewilderment. And maybe it's a sign Liam hasn't seen them in a long time, but they're as gorgeous as he remembers them.

“ _Leeyum!_ ” Zayn beams, brighter than the sun the shades on his window keep at bay. “You're here! Have you opened it yet?”

Oh. Right. The wooden box in Liam’s arms. He had forgotten about it. Likely around the same time he forgot how to breathe.

He crosses the room in two steps. His free hand cradles Zayn’s face, now covered in a beard thicker than usual. Zayn doesn't protest, either, burying his cheek into it.

“I've missed you,” he whispers, nuzzling into Liam’s touch.

His words sober Liam up, causing him to drop it.

“ _Leeyum_?”

“You really think you can just send me this and expect everything to be okay?” Liam’s mouth twists at the corner. His vision becomes blurrier by the second. “No communication for two years! Then I found out you nearly died! How do you think I'd feel?!”

“Liam, he’s—”

He holds a hands up, silencing Veronica.

“You really think you can waltz back into my life, and I’d just smile and say ‘yes’,” he says, placing the box at the end of the bed. “I'm going back home.”

Zayn swallows visibly, lip trembling despite his attempt to catch and steady it between his teeth. “I thought you— tha’ we—”

“There's no ‘we', Zed. There’s never been.” Liam exhales. “That’s how we got into this mess.”

Zayn stares at the wooden chest. “Sorry. I just thought—” he pauses, sucks his bottom lip, and lets out a shaky breath. “I thought you’d still want us together.”

“I do.”

Some explanation is due, Liam supposes.

“You do?” Any bit higher, and Zayn’ eyebrows will disappear into his hairline. “Babe, I’m not—”

“I leave for two years, then you receive something important to us from Logan. He tells you I didn’t show up to see you ‘cos I nearly died.” He fishes a ball chain from his pocket. “Then I propose—or whatever—in a letter, but the first time you see me IN YEARS, I’m a wreck and can’t even kiss you or hold you.”

Zayn clears his throat. “...sounds daft when you put it tha’ way.”

Liam unclasps the chain, letting a small key dangle from it. He carefully reaches behind Zayn’s neck, and when finished, he adjust it so the key faces forwards.

“Oh, really?”

“I also know you’re aggressive with your critiques...” Zayn quirks his eyebrows. “Not sure I should listen, to be honest.”

“Thought you liked ‘aggressive and raw’.”

“Writing-wise, yeah? And maybe also in—”

A single clap interrupts them. There’s a flustered Veronica clasping her hands, and visibly struggling to keep laughter in.

“Just to remind you two I’m still here, you’re destroyed”—she points to Zayn—“and this is a hospital. I'm sure you can wait a month or two.”

She's right. Not that they'd engage into anything that could get them arrested. They're so close. So much closer than any other time in the past two years. Yet, the figurative distance that separates them is wider. If they are to reunite like this, timid and reserved, they can wait a few more months.

Zayn grabs Liam’s wrist. “As soon as I'm walking again, I'm going to see ya.”

Liam covers the hand on his forearm. “I can't wait.”

#

Weeks of healing and rehabilitation stretch till they no cast or crutches bind Zayn. Unlike the previous two years, video calls keep longing in check, and for times provide relief for pent-up feelings. They have Veronica to thank for it, though she likely didn't have _that_ in mind when providing Zayn with technology.

If Liam is to be honest, that would've been _his_ sibling’s idea.

The grand day is finally upon them. Again Liam prepares a picnic, and again he's met with the same grey car outside his parents’ house. He flinches on reflex, taken by not so old memories, then breathes out when a familiar face ducks out of the window.

“Hi, is this the Paynes’ residence? I'm looking for the man who read my book and never reviewed it.”

A grin soon becomes laughter. Liam hadn't expect Zayn to forget it, but he also hadn't expected it to be the first thing he'd bring up. Yes, the note left inside that _Redwoods_ copy had this purpose in mind. He just expected lower levels of pettiness.

It seems he's been wrong.

“I heard he's quite the critic,” Liam says, crossing the front yard. “Are you sure you still wanna hear it?”

Zayn pouts, trying to eye his own furrowed brow.

“A little rawness spices things up,” he finally says.

Although Zayn puts Liam’s basket in the trunk, he makes no other moves. There's no attempt at a kiss, a hug, or a simple handshake. He does open the door, however, so no complaints about his chivalrous ways.

Even if Liam would gladly ditch it for a good snog, right now. Maybe he's expected too much. Maybe they have different expectations from this encounter. It should be clearer later on, he thinks.

In the car, lots of small talk. It's not bad, but it isn't what Liam seeks, either. He expects a hand on his thigh, a peck on the lips, and receives... no such things. Nothing.

It seems for a moment that Zayn will go for his lips, but then he's just reaching for Liam’s seatbelt. And to make it worse he checks on Liam upon noticing Liam’s closed eyes and parted lips.

After this, Liam focuses on their conversation and lets it all flow. There's a lot they can talk about, and it's not like this is their last time seeing each other.

Unless it is.

 _Oh gosh._ What if Zayn hasn't taken too well that ‘rejection’? Knowing him, it wouldn't be a surprise he'd wait months to say it face-to-face. Most guys would settle for a text, at most a 30-second call.

“ _Leeyum?_ Everything all right?”

Liam shakes himself off his thoughts. His door is opened and a concerned Zayn stares at him, hand held out. He decided to accept the offer, and lets himself be hauled out of the vehicle.

“You spaced out on me.” Zayn heaves the basket out of the trunk, then slams it closed. “Am I tha’ boring?”

“No, no! I was thinking... some stuff.”

Zayn smirks, again offering his hand. “Good thing I was driving, eh?”

“Enough crashes for a lifetime, I reckon.” Liam slips his hand in Zayn’s, content when their fingers fit together with the same ease of years ago. “I was just thinking, really.”

Wouldn't be the last time, either, as they waddle through tall grass to a nice spot set up for a picnic. Similar to what Liam has brought, and a little beyond, with this electronic candelabrum among the plates.

Electronic, yes. Those aren't flames. Would be a terrible idea surrounded in all this withered vegetation, too. Just one thing puzzles Liam: if It's crazy early in the morning, when did Zayn find time to arrive, set this up _and_ pick him up?

“You're wondering when I did all this.”

Okay. Either it's written on his face (expressive eyebrows are as much of a curse as they're a blessing), or somebody has gained psychic powers since last time.

Either way, Zayn offers no answers, only motioning to take shoes off.

“Before anything else, this is for you.” He uncovers a parcel wrapped in paper of similar pattern to the table cloth beneath them. “We'll start after you read it.”

It doesn't look like he's doing anything else, so Liam obliges, lest they sit here for the entire day. Assuming it's about the contents and not the actual wrapper, he peels it off, unsurprised to find a familiar chest. It takes him a quick fishing into his shirt, and he's unlocking it for a letter. _Sorry,_ reads the salmon-coloured envelope.

_This is an apology. Let's try again from the beginning._

_Zayn_

To be honest, this reminds Liam of that one time he gave his dad a birthday card with _‘buffday’_ on it. Except that Zayn’s spelling is nowhere as atrocious as his kid self’s. No complaints on that department.

“So... Is there a message here, or am I too thick to get it?”

He suspects it might be both, seeing as Zayn pulls out a harmonica and starts playing... Happy Birthday to You? There's a moment Liam contemplates still being in bed, and that at any moment his mum will knock to tell him he's overslept. Nothing else explains this string of oddities he's experienced in the past half an hour.

Zayn inhales mid-song. “It's the only one I know.”

“That's already a lot of improvement. Not even pulling your leg.”

"Cool.”

The song comes to an end, though Zayn doesn't stop there. Nor, again, does offer any explanations. He simply taps his finger to the wooden chest, and there Liam finds another letter.

Another surprise? Another song? It doesn't matter. After that scare with Veronica at his door, he believes he can handle anything else pretty well.

Unless this Zayn admits he isn't Zayn, but instead a clone made to replace the original one who died in that accident. Then, Liam can't say he'll handle _anything_ , least of all handle it well.

Liam sets the cream-coloured envelope with _Sorry (encore)_ on it.

_Look into my eyes._

_Zayn_

“If you are reading this, it means our feelings are the same as before,” Zayn starts, taking hold of Liam’s left hand.

_This sounds familiar... Wait._

“But if you wear this band, it means you’re ready for so much more,” he continues. In his right hand he reveals a steel ring he aligns with, and slips onto Liam’s ring finger. “Be mine, _Leeyum_ , for I'm already yours.”

Liam blinks. “Is that—”

Of course, it is. What else would be, and why has it taken him so long to notice it? On Zayn’s ring finger, a similar band shines against the early morning sun. And if that's not enough, he has to watch Zayn kiss his knuckles softly.

“You make me cry a lot. You know that?” He lets out a shaky breath, cursing the pricking in his eyes. “What do you even ask, for I've been yours from the moment we met?”

Zayn beams. His widest grin Liam has witnessed to this day. He kisses Liam’s knuckles again, but thrice at once.

“The most literary way to start a relationship,” he chirps, pulling Liam into a tight hug. “Who's cheesy now?”

Although tears roll down his cheek, Liam laughs. These aren't of sadness. He sees many emotions to them, and not one he detests. These tears take with them something heavy, a weight till now wrought into his chest, into his lungs. He's air-headed with this new rush of oxygen, and when it seems he'll stop breathing, new air is breathed into him through his lips. _Zayn’s_ breath.

The familiar taste against his tongue brings easiness, as it is with the whole of Zayn. Liam’s mind blanks out, surrendered to the gentle lips on his. How has he longed for it, to feel this placid desire that tells him he's a choice. Then and now, he's a conscious choice. Not some afterthought, nor an adventure. He's a choice Zayn has chosen, and would choose again.

When they break apart, it's Zayn the one to still chase after their kiss.

“I thought you came back to turn me down,” Liam confesses. “You were acting weird. Sorta distant and all.”

“I told ya we were doing this proper this time. _Now_ we're together.” Zayn kisses his lips. “Kissing you at your door would’ve been... Bad.”

He reaches to wipe Zayn’s tears. “Bad?”

“Your parents catching us on their sofa? ...Or floor, most likely.”

Bad, indeed. A worsened version of that time Mama Payne caught him ‘getting acquainted with himself’ on his first years of puberty. That level of bad. But _so_ much worse.

Zayn rolls over to Liam’s basket, and gets to setting sandwiches for them. He confesses there's something else he'd like, but ultimately, their first date comes first. And hopefully, the promise lingers till they reach a more private space.

“Oh, Logan said I can use my room tonight, if we keep it clean.” He pours lemonade for both, passing Liam a cup. “He'll be out with your parents.”

By now, Liam knows better than asking Logan’s involvement in all this. He just knows. (Also, the implications in ‘Zayn’s room’ explain this picnic set up so quickly.) Instead, he makes a mental note of thanking his brother, and then of accepting his dad's loan to get his own place.

They take shelter in the shadow of a tree, resting against each other. From here, they can see the redwoods, tall, imposing, reaching for the skies through the centuries. And maybe that's what they strive for, too. Maybe not to last centuries, but to grow together and stand the test of time.

Like these redwoods.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. It's been fun, but it's over now. Time to finish some other projects/adaptations, and maybe even start an original (Ziam) fic! I hope you've all enjoyed it. Criticism is welcome. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the support and words of encouragement!
> 
> Is there any piece of media that screams 'Ziam' to you and you're interested in? Let's talk about it. For inquiries on prompts and AUs, reach me @[zeskiyo](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, or @[zeskiverse](https://twitter.com/zeskiverse) on twitter.


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